


Looking for a Place to Call Home

by gremlins-came-and-got-me (Scared_Beings_in_the_Dark)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Abducted Hales, Chapter Five(7) is gross too!, Chapter Four(6) has Gross Stuff, Child Abuse, Dead Hale Parents, Deputy Stiles Stilinski, Food Issues, Full Shift Werewolves, Gen, Gross things happen, Implied Depression and Treatment, Kate Argent Warning, Mention of Attempted Sexual Assault beg. of Chapter 8, Older Stiles Stilinski, Retired Deaton, Retired Sheriff, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, Tags will be updated, Torture, Underweight Derek, Veterinary Medical Examination, background Allydia (they're married), evil!Kate Argent, just in case, younger Derek hale
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-11
Updated: 2018-08-14
Packaged: 2018-11-30 15:51:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 34,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11466753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scared_Beings_in_the_Dark/pseuds/gremlins-came-and-got-me
Summary: Three years ago, Derek Hale was stolen from his parents' den outside of Beacon Hills, California, and taken to upstate New York whereshetrained him. Six weeks ago, he managed to escape and run back to California, but getting home may have been the easy part and it wasn't easy at all. Now Derek has to deal with Animal Control officers, police officers, and veterinary offices. Oh, yeah, and an infestation of worms.





	1. Cover

Originally posted [here](http://1989dreamer.tumblr.com/post/162604070860/cover-and-chapter-one-of-looking-for-a-place-to) at my Tumblr.


	2. Missing Poster of Derek Hale

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Please note: phone numbers are not real. Do not call!**

**Originally posted[here at my Tumblr](http://1989dreamer.tumblr.com/post/162857742320/art-for-looking-for-a-place-to-call-home).**


	3. One

~ * ~

The raccoon has been dead for the better part of a week, but it’s food. Derek crunches through the body quickly, forcing it down to settle in his belly. When he’s done eating as much as he can, he pads off the road and into the underbrush.

It is worrisome to him that he didn’t even drag his find away from danger before making himself vulnerable while he ate. It’s even more worrisome that he barely makes it ten feet before he starts vomiting. Okay, apparently week-old raccoon is too much even for a wolf’s digestive system.

Derek manages another ten feet before he collapses, burrowing under a pile of leaves and twigs. He knows if there are hunters in the area, tracking things like him, they will find him. He doesn’t have the energy to haul himself upright, to lay a false trail, or to find a more defensible resting area.

He takes comfort in the fact that he’s nearly home, that he is more likely to be sniffed out by a member of his own pack than to be found by a hunter. He closes his eyes, breathing deeply despite the lingering odor of his sick,

He doesn’t feel safe, hasn’t for three years, but his overtaxed body doesn’t care, and he slips off to sleep quickly. He dreams of raccoons that taste like chicken, each of them taunting him with _her_ voice, telling him just how good of a boy he really is.

Derek wakes up on his back, limbs splayed, his cover disturbed. He pants heavily, still trying to shake his half-dream. Fingers and toes curl as he takes stock of his body. It’s been days since he last shifted, his human form too dangerous to travel as. He’s already seen a few posters with his thirteen-year-old face plastered all over them.

He spends a couple more minutes calming his breathing and making sure his cramping, roiling guts aren’t going to kill him yet. Eventually, he’s sure. There has to be something wrong when he can eat three whole deer off the side of I-5 and not be comatose from too much food.

Once he’s satisfied he’s in full control of his body, and thankfully still alone, he shifts back into his wolf form. Rolling over and standing up is another problem, one he didn’t think he could handle in human form.

He makes it up, shaky and stumbling, tripping over his too-large paws and almost falling every other step. Derek finds a rhythm soon enough—plod three steps, stop to rest for a breath, plod three more steps, rest, rinse, and repeat until his whole body feels numb.

It’s worrisome—“Again, worry, you’ll get gray hairs, Derek, sweetie,” _she_ taunts—that he can’t smell any other wolves. He’s in California—he knows he is, his bones ache with homesickness and the air is soothing it a bit, easing back the tension tight in his muscles. But, he hasn’t come across even another pack. He’d grown up with stories of the trouble-making Teller pack that lived northeast of Hale territory.

Derek has been angling more west than south, but a few spots in the underbrush, yellowed from repeated urination, are too old for him to get a clear scent.

Or, he thinks, heart pounding painfully in his chest, his nose is whacked out, done sniffing mundane trivialities. After all, the only reason he ate the raccoon earlier was because he _could_ smell it.

Derek keeps moving, chewing the fact that he can’t trust his nose at all quickly, like he did the raccoon, praying it doesn’t come back to hurt him more. He is aware that he’s at his limit. He is too tired to protect himself beyond basic measures; hell, he hasn’t even been laying a false trail since he passed through Michigan.

Picking his way through foliage is tougher than he can handle, and after sprawling one too many times from a branch he tried climbing over, he rolls out of the brush and onto the road. The gravel digs into his paws, but he ignores it in favor of pressing on, his path unhindered now. His sense of smell might be diminished but his hearing and sight are just fine…when he can manage to lift his head. Derek knows he’s dying. In either form, his stomach is swollen even when he doesn’t eat. He can barely support himself on four legs, much less two.

He hasn’t started hallucinating yet, but _her_ voice is a constant murmur in his ear and it’s getting harder to ignore it.

Just keep moving, he thinks to himself. His walk isn’t a straight line anymore, his body listing side to side as he weaves all over the road. He barely hears the approaching vehicle over his rough pants, tongue dry and swelled too fat for his mouth. It takes precious seconds for him to realize that the vehicle is coming from behind him, and it takes everything, all of his energy and concentration, to move to the side of the road.

The vehicle passes slowly. Derek stares unseeing, not realizing that it has stopped and is just sitting there. He wavers on his feet, tipping too far forward as he strains to listen for any more motors, but he’s gone deaf now too, ears ringing. He isn’t aware of the ground smashing into his face when he falls: he’s already unconscious.

~ * ~

Deputy Stiles Stilinski has seen a lot of weird and dangerous things in his ten years on the force—many of them related to drunk people; Marie’s Apple Pie Fiasco still ranks a top five—but he’s never seen an emaciated wolf sitting in the middle of a little-used access road. It gets weirder when the wolf stumbles out of his cruiser’s path only to immediately collapse on its face.

Well, he can’t in good conscience leave an endangered animal, especially one that hasn’t been in this state since at least the 1960s, out here to die alone. A wolf deserves more dignity than that.

Stiles sighs. His father is going to really love this story at their weekly lunch. His father always sighs, rubs his face like it physically hurts him, and mutters, “Aw crap, kid.”

It never deters Stiles, his father’s words, because John Stilinski always says, “I’m proud of you, son,” before Stiles goes back to work. Stiles can count on one hand the number of times he didn’t say it, and that is because those are the times Stiles says it first. What? Just because his dad is retired now and raises award-winning roses doesn’t mean he doesn’t deserve to have love and pride too.

Stiles sighs, rubs his face (though it doesn’t hurt…yet), and mutters, “Aw crap,” before grabbing his CB radio's mic.

“Dispatch, this is Unit 5, do you copy?”

“Copy, Unit 5, this is Dispatch. Go ahead.”

“Dispatch, I’m out on Access Road 17, and I’m gonna need Animal Control. I’ve got a severely underweight canine-type. I’ve got a muzzle with me but I don’t wanna hurt her any more than she’s already been.”

“10-4, Unit 5. Animal Control has been contacted, ETA is 15 minutes. Just sit tight, Stiles.”

“God bless, Marie,” he says before cradling his mic.

He tries to stay in the car the whole time. Really, he does. But the poor wolf, conked out by the road where anyone could attack while she’s vulnerable, hurts his heart so much that before he knows it, he’s kneeling next to her head, muzzle dangling from his fingers while he strokes the soft fur around her ears.

The wolf huffs a breath but doesn’t wake. Unusual, Stiles thinks. His great-aunt Sarah used to breed dogs, and when he was a child visiting her, he would sneak up on many of the sleeping pooches. None of them slept through a petting like this wolf is doing. It makes Stiles more concerned for her health.

“Poor baby,” he murmurs, carding through her fur again. “We’ll take care of you, make sure nothing else bad happens to you.”

At his words, the wolf’s eyes spring open, blazing electric blue. Stiles inhales sharply, and the wolf snaps her gaze to him. They stare silently for a long moment before the wolf bows her head and bares her neck.

Submission, Stiles thinks. Angered, he wonders if someone tried (and maybe succeeded) to tame this wild creature. He notices her eyes aren’t blue anymore. Curious.

Of course, when he’s got his hand on the wolf’s neck, leaning down for a better look at her now-hazel eyes, fingers splayed wide to convey no harm meant, Animal Control finally shows up, five minutes late.

Isaac Lahey and V. Boyd, two former classmates of Stiles', saunter up to him, Boyd holding a giant dog crate while Lahey wields a noose on a stick. Under Stiles’ hand, the wolf tenses.

“What the hell, Stilinski?” Lahey demands as both he and Boyd stop a few yards away. Stiles is pretty sure he can hit them with a wad of spit if he tries.

Instead, he does the more mature thing and flips them off. Lahey flips him off in return.

“First,” Boyd says, calmly Stiles thinks until he sees the tic in his eyelid, a sure sign that he’s pissed and someone’s about to get it. Since Stiles is the one he’s looking at, Stiles feels optimistic about being the target of V. Boyd’s wrath. “That is not a dog; that is a wolf. Second, you were told to stay in your vehicle until we arrived.”

“First,” Stiles counters, “I said canine-type. Last I checked, wolves were part of the canine family. And second, I was told to sit tight, not where to sit.” He grins, smug, at Boyd’s annoyed frown.

“You gonna let us do our job or what?” Lahey snaps, and the wolf growls lowly. Stiles pets her until she calms enough to stop.

“Just don’t come at her with the lyncher,” he says.

“Lyncher?” Lahey repeats, looking at his weapon with a hurt expression. “It’s called a catcher-pole.”

“Just put the dog carrier down and I’ll get her in it.” Stiles rolls his eyes when Lahey and Boyd refuse. “Look, you can come at her with the lyncher and maybe get bitten, or you can let someone she obviously trusts get her into the carrier without any injuries.”

Boyd glares and drops the carrier. “Come on, Isaac,” he says. “Let’s go check on that coyote den we found the other day.”

“Should we at least make sure the wolf doesn’t eat him?” Lahey asks. “I really don’t want to miss Stilinski getting a bite taken out of him.” Stiles does not like the thoughtful look Boyd gives Lahey.

“I’m not going to be bitten,” he says. He pets the wolf again, running his hand down her spine, cooing softly when she rumbles under his palm. He doesn’t count the knobs of her spine. “Okay,” he says, one last pat to the wolf’s head, “come on, girl. Let’s get you in the carrier so we can take you somewhere safe.”

The wolf growls at him before huffing, almost sighing, and struggling upright to pad, unsteadily, to the carrier. Stiles opens the door, latching it shut behind her. She drops down almost immediately.

“Hey, Stilinski,” Lahey says, and Stiles doesn’t jump at the suddenness of him popping up by his elbow.

“What?” he grinds out, taking in Lahey’s smug face.

“You, uh, you sure this canine-type’s a little lady?” Lahey sounds like he’s about to burst out laughing. From the carrier, the wolf growls again.

“Sure,” Stiles says, shrugging. “She’s small, more like a female than a male. Even emaciated as she is, a male would be bigger.”

“So, how do you explain her balls?” Lahey doubles over, chortling wildly. Stiles scowls at him, then he looks to Boyd to tell him to control his partner only to find Boyd’s got his hands on his knees laughing silently.

“Fine,” Stiles huffs. "The wolf has balls. Whoop-de-fucking-doo. You gonna help me get him to the vet’s office for a check-up?”

Boyd straightens and nods, serious again. Scary how he can reign in his emotions like that.

“Isaac,” Boyd says, kicking at his partner as he passes him. He double-checks the latch of the carrier. “We’ll have McCall tranq him when we get there. He’ll better know what dose to use.”

Together, Lahey and Boyd get the carrier secured into the back of Animal Control’s van. Before they can drive off, Stiles reaches through the bars of the door, ignoring Boyd’s worried, Stilinski,” and pets the wolf’s muzzle. She—he—whines, nudging at and licking his fingers.

“You’re a good boy,” he says. “I won’t let anyone hurt you ever again. You’re going to love where you’re going—water, food, a warm bed.” The wolf licks his palm and then shuffles away to curl in a ball at the back of the carrier. Stiles wants to cry: there’s a chance the wolf will be deemed too far gone for rehabilitation and will be put down.

“Hey, Stilinski,” Lahey says, clapping his shoulder in comfort, like he knows what Stiles is thinking about, “we’ll take care of him. I promise."

“Well, let’s go then.” Stiles wipes his eyes (even though they’re dry) and heads to his cruiser. He waits for Boyd to crank the ignition while Lahey closes the back doors of the van from the inside. At least the wolf will have company on the short ride.

He follows the van as it heads for Beacon Hills Vet Clinic near the edge of town.

~ * ~


	4. Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that I am not a veterinarian. I have not studied any medical science at all. Any inconsistencies may be pointed out for the betterment of the story. Thank you.

~ * ~

Derek watches the man with bright blue eyes and loose curls as he settles onto the bench next to where the cage is secured. He smells like old injuries and Derek wonders how badly he stinks of it if he’s able to smell it with his lackluster nose. What had the tall, bald man called him? Isaac?

Isaac sighs, scrubbing at his face with long fingers. “So, you’ll tolerate Stilinski,” he says. “The deputy that’ll talk the ear off a ghost. Nice to know that your taste is so maladroit.”

Derek cocks his head. He doesn’t understand that word. Isaac notices him watching and snorts in mild amusement.

“I suppose you want stories of your savior, huh?”

Savior? The deputy? Derek thinks about this, head on his paws. Did the deputy save him? He certainly made a promise to not hurt him anymore, but he also let Isaac and the bald man take him away.

“Did you know, Stiles’ dad used to be the sheriff before my dad got elected?” Derek lifts his head, sniffing loudly to let Isaac know that he can smell his misery. Isaac ignores him and continues talking, but Derek can’t concentrate on the words. He whines when Isaac smells even more miserable with a hint of salt water.

The van’s brakes squeal as the bald man parks at the back of a squat, square building that reeks so strongly of different animals’ urine Derek can smell it in his cage.

“Hey, Boyd,” Isaac says, and the bald man pauses, his door half-open. “I don’t think I can go in. You mind getting Stilinski to help you?”

The bald man, Boyd apparently, nods. He slams his door shut, startling a small yip from Derek. Isaac glances at him from the corner of a red-rimmed eye. Then, the back door of the van opens and Boyd grabs the cage, releasing the tethers and readying to pull it out.

Derek growls softly, nudging at the latched door until Isaac looks at him fully. _You’re not alone_ , Derek tries to say, but it comes out garbled in wolf-speak. Isaac seems to understand anyway, giving him a small smile and a pat through the bars.

“What is it with you and Stilinski today?” Boyd demands. “You do realize that this is a wild animal, right?”

“Yeah,” Isaac replies. “Sorry. Won’t happen again.”

The deputy appears behind Boyd, gesturing impatiently. “Ready?” he says.

“Ready.” Boyd hefts the cage up. Derek’s stomach swoops, and he whines in discomfort.

“Easy,” Stilinski snaps. “Careful with him.”

“I am being careful,” Boyd huffs. Derek lies down, covering his eyes with his paws. It does not help his growing nausea. They make it inside the building before he throws up though, so he decides it was a good experience—he doesn’t have many of those anymore.

“Hey,” a new voice says, and Derek peers at the stranger whose scent is calming if a little bit like a wet dog. “Is this why you had me clear the clinic?”

Clinic? He’s at the vet? Derek panics then, outright crying in fear. So many times _she_ threatened to take him to a vet like this man and let him take his balls, turn him into a bitch, only good for breeding intact boys they didn’t want impregnating their girls.

“Hey, whoa,” Stilinski says, hand thrust through the bars. Derek nips at his fingers, asking forgiveness for whatever he’s done wrong. “Come on, boy. It’s okay. Scott’s just going to examine you and let us know how to care for you.”

Derek stills, panting hard. He’s run out of energy, too weak to keep fighting. He strains his ears, sorting through the different heartbeats until he finds Stilinski’s. It’s steady. There’s a few irregular beats, but he attributes them to his freak out.

“Stiles,” Scott-the-vet says, “he’s an animal. He doesn’t understand what you’re saying.”

Stilinski—Stiles—huffs and continues petting the side of Derek’s mouth. “He calmed down, didn’t he?” he retorts. Derek licks him as a thank you.

“Can I please set the carrier down now?” Boyd asks, irritation dripping from his words. “Despite being a starved animal, he still weighs a lot.”

Scott shoves Stiles away from the cage, waving toward the table in the center of the room. “Just set it there. I’ll do a quick assessment and then knock him out for further examination. You can either wait for the carrier or collect it later.”

“How long for the assessment?” Boyd asks, swinging the cage by a row of deep sinks smelling strongly of wet dog—must be why Scott stinks. Boyd thumps the cage down onto the table and backs away while Stiles steps forward to stick his hand through the door again.

“He’s pretty underweight,” he muses, stroking his hand down Derek’s back. Derek arches, rumbling as his fingers press pleasantly into his tangled fur.

Scott yelps, making Derek yip in fright.

“Get your hand out of there! What the hell are you thinking?! What if he bites you?”

“He hasn’t yet,” Stiles says, almost meekly.

“He keeps doing that,” Boyd adds. “I think it’s actually working to keep the wolf calm.”

“Stiles,” Scott says reproachfully.

“Save it, Scott,” Stiles says, still cowed. Derek nuzzles his palm. “You didn’t see him collapse by the side of the road. If I hadn’t been there, he could very well be dead or dying right now. Can you please do your job and make sure he’s going to live?”

“Fine, but you do realize that if he bites you it’s an automatic death sentence? Regardless of if you were provoking him or not?”

Stiles looks down at Derek and pats his muzzle. Derek yawns, licking at his palm. He’s not sure why Stiles makes him feel safe. He supposes it has to do with the promises he keeps making. Derek is used to promises of pain. He knows what to do with those. But, Stiles doesn’t promise pain at all. In fact, he keeps promising the opposite.

Even when Scott grabs him by the ruff and jabs a needle into his shoulder, Stiles keeps petting him, making soothing sounds in his throat. Then, Scott opens the cage’s door and Stiles drags him out onto the table proper. Boyd snatches up the cage and heads out without saying goodbye.

“Hey, it’s okay, bud,” Stiles says, breath tickling Derek’s ear. “It’s a sedative so that Scott can x-ray you to see if you’ve got any internal problems. I’ll make sure he doesn’t do anything else to you. I promise.”

There’s those words again. ‘I promise.’ The issue is not hearing them. It’s believing them. As in, Derek believes Stiles. His heartbeat stays steady and he keeps an arm around him while the sedative starts making Derek’s vision slide sideways and blur out.

“Good boy,” Stiles whispers, pressing a kiss to his cheek—well, more like the side of his mouth. He doesn’t get a chance to respond before the sedative fully takes effect and drags him deep under.

The last thing Derek is aware of is Stiles’ hand petting him, touching him.

~ * ~

Stiles finally backs away and takes a seat when the wolf slips into dreamland. Scott examines him quickly and efficiently, all the while commentating what he’s doing to Stiles, like he knows that Stiles wants to hear everything about this poor creature. Sometimes Scott is the best.

“He’s severely underweight—probably has something to do with his lifestyle right now.” He runs his hands over the belly and frowns.

“What?” Stiles demands. “What’s wrong?”

“His stomach…” Scott palpitates it gingerly. “It’s swollen, like he’s just eaten, which might explain his lethargy.”

“But?” Scott’s good at his job. Stiles believe he thinks the wolf’s bloated abdomen is from eating recently.

“But,” Scott sighs, “it’s an indication that he might have worms. I’ll take a stool sample to be sure. It might also explain why he’s so malnourished. He’s smaller than a female his age would be right now—he’s possibly underdeveloped. Stiles, I don’t think he could survive in the wild.”

“What if he’s not a full wolf? Like, maybe his mom was a Pomeranian or something?”

“A mix?” Scott asks, peering into the wolf’s mouth, using a headlamp to illuminate the area and a tongue depressor to scrape samples. He taps each tooth and hums. “Probably,” he finally says. He grabs a long glove, tugging it on up to his elbow. He refuses to look at Stiles as he lubes up his covered hand.

“Ah man,” Stiles groans, wincing in sympathy as Scott works one and then two fingers into the poor wolf’s rectum. The wolf shifts and whines as Scott gently probes him. He settles with a quiet sigh when Scott pulls free.

“There, all done,” Scott declares, stripping off the glove and throwing it away. “I’ll get the stool sample later. I’ll give you a call with the results.”

“Are you getting rid of me?” Stiles asks, feigning hurt. He knows he’s useless to Scott when he’s in his element.

Scott grins at him. “You need to finish your shift, and he needs a bowel movement. There’s nothing to do but wait. Might as well get situated for fostering.”

“Fostering?” Stiles repeats. Scott’s grin widens.

“If he proves to be non-aggressive, in addition to not being a full-wolf—not a quarter wolf either—then he’ll need a home. You’ve already bonded with him, so you’d be a perfect choice as a foster home.”

“With first shot at adoption?” Stiles presses. He’s always wanted a dog, and Scott’s right, he and the maybe-wolf _have_ bonded, despite Stiles mistaking him for a female.

Scott shrugs. “Sure,” he says. “First shot at adoption too. Now, get back to work before the sheriff writes you up for shirking.”

“Cool, awesome. Hey, thanks, Scotty,” Stiles manages to sputter as he heads for the door. He pauses to pet the wolf again, digging his fingers into his ruff. “Hey, can you let him know I’ll be back if he wakes up before the end of my shift? Thanks, man!”

He walks away quickly, trying and failing to not to glance back at where Scott is carrying the still-out-cold wolf to a kennel three times the size of Animal Control’s carrier. There will be plenty of room for the wolf to explore if he wants to. Scott’s a good vet. The best. Especially if he allows Stiles to adopt the wolf.

He shakes his head and climbs into his cruiser, still elated at the thought that he could have a companion soon. He’ll have to think of names for the wolf. Oh, well. He has plenty of time while he finishes his patrol.

~ * ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a thank you to everyone who read, left kudos, wrote comments, bookmarked, and subscribed. Unfortunately, this is the last update for at least a week. I will try to have new chapters on Wednesdays, but my schedule is ever-changing.
> 
> If anyone wants to Beta read for this story (or just wants updates), check out [my Tumblr](https://1989dreamer.tumblr.com).


	5. Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not have any medical training whatsoever (for humans or animals). If I got something wrong, please let me know so that I can fix it. Thank you.

~ * ~

Derek comes back to awareness all at once and it is not pleasant at all. First, his head aches, fuzzy with too much sleep. Second, he’s still in a cage. Albeit a bigger cage but a cage all the same. And Stiles is nowhere to be found.

Derek pushes himself upright onto his paws so he can stumble listlessly from one corner to the next. He trips over a small purple bowl as he explores and then knocks it into a corner when he discovers that it’s empty. The vet—Scott—is watching him from his seat at the examination table. Derek chuffs softly, dropping back onto his belly and resting his head on his front paws.

“I feel so stupid,” Scott mutters, and Derek knows he’s not supposed to hear it, or rather, understand it. He’s a wolf. “Oh my God.” Scott inhales deeply before standing up and stalking to the cage to loom over Derek. “Okay, so Stiles said he’d be back after his shift. He’ll be done at 5:00 p.m. That’s about two hours from now.” He sighs in relief. “Dude, I don’t know if you understand me at all, but, yeah, Stiles will be back.” He sighs again and goes back to his table.

Derek digests this information. So, Stiles intends to come back after all. That’s…good. Unexpected.

“Also,” Scott adds without looking up from where he is scribbling on a piece of paper, “you need to poop so I can take a sample. I think you have worms.”

Worms? Derek frowns, thinking. It’s possible. He has been eating a lot of road kill. The route from New York State has been difficult to say the least. He does wonder how the worms were able to stick around—wouldn’t his body have treated them as it would any other ailment?

He recalls being ill in the days before he managed to escape. He’d recently had his shots as _she_ was pretending he was a purebred husky. Had the vet given him an inhibitor as well? Is that why he’s having trouble shifting and why he has worms? He whines in distress, and Scott looks at him sharply.

“You’re okay,” he says, tone soft. “You’ll be fine once you’re on all the meds you need.”

Somehow his promises sound more hollow than Stiles’, like Stiles means his while Scott hopes his will come true. He almost sounds like a hunter bending the truth so that his heartbeat remains steady while he lies.

And he wants Derek to poop so that he can look for worms. Could be worse, Derek thinks. He sniffs the cage pointedly until Scott rolls his eyes.

“Just take your dump on the training pad,” he says. Then he freezes, staring at Derek as he squats on the blue plastic tarp in the corner farthest from the cage’s door. “Do you understand me?” he asks, wide-eyed. Derek ignores him and continues to try to shit. It feels like it’s stuck and never-ending all at once. And it hurts, his stomach muscles convulsing as he pushes.

“Oh shit,” Scott says, his terrified scent wafting over Derek. It makes him panicky and he starts growling. “If you can understand me, stop pooping,” Scott commands. Derek whines high-pitched, unsure if he can obey.

“Seriously, stop. You’re bleeding. Come on now.” Scott steps up to the bars, staring down at him. He lowers his voice and straightens so that he towers over Derek. “Stop shitting,” he commands, alpha-strong timbre in his tone.

Derek stops. He lowers his head briefly before offering his throat to Scott. Stiles had seemed slightly horrified by it earlier, and Scott appears affected as well, his eyes softening as he reaches through the bars to pet Derek’s bowed head.

“Good boy. That’s a good boy.” Scott sighs heavily, stroking gently. “I’m going to have to do a more extensive search, to see if it’s something worse than worms. Maybe something sharp perforated your bowels.”

Derek huffs softly. He knows what an exam like that entails. It could be as simple as Scott opening him with a speculum and searching or as invasive as the vet cutting him open and testing his intestines. Neither option is particularly appealing but Derek has suffered them both before. He just has to remain conscious during the procedure, either one, to keep from healing. If he could shift and speak to Scott in his human form, he’d tell him to do the speculum one. But, Scott will probably do the one with the evisceration, _and_ he’d definitely put Derek to sleep for it.

He doesn’t want either and resolves to heal before Scott can do anything to him. He still has an hour and a half before Stiles comes back that he has to distract Scott. A lot can happen in ninety minutes.

Simplest way to distract a vet? Derek growls too low for Scott to hear, issuing a challenge to any other animals on the premises. Almost immediately, a cacophony of barks and hisses takes up. Derek smirks as best he can with his elongated jaw when Scott stops petting him to go investigate.

Derek is in the middle of working through his shift, flexing fingers, curling toes, snapping human teeth while remaining in a wolf’s body, when the front door opens. He freezes, slipping back into his full shift.

Stiles steps through the doorway to the backroom, heading for Derek’s cage. The deputy smells like he spent the rest of his shift in an un-air-conditioned room. Derek nuzzles the hand he sticks through the bars.

“Hey there, little buddy,” Stiles coos, scratching behind Derek’s ears and plucking out a tangled burr. His tail starts thumping and Stiles grins victoriously.

Suddenly, his happy scent sours, and he says, “What’s this, eh?” Derek glares down at his paws, flexing his toes. “Scott?” Stiles calls, worried. “Hey, Scott. Why is there blood in his poop?”

“Oh hey, Stiles,” he says over the still-barking dogs. At least the cats have quieted down. “You’re back early. Sheriff let you off?”

“Scott,” Stiles says lowly. “Blood. Poop. Why?”

Scott rubs at the back of his head and refuses to make eye contact. “He might have worms, which I already told you,” he mumbles.

“Worms like what? Tape worms? Meal worms? Heart worms? What worms, Scott?” Stiles yells.

“I don’t know!” Scott shouts back. Derek slinks down, hiding his head under his paws. He’s making them mad and if they get too mad Stiles might not want him anymore. And if Stiles doesn’t want him anymore he won’t take him home and Scott will put Derek’s picture out. And if it’s out, then _she_ will find it and track him and then it won’t matter that he escaped or that he made it back home because _she_ will kill him.

Derek isn’t aware of the argument stopping before it’s really begun. Nor is he aware of the fact that he’s whining and whimpering as he presses his paws harder over his head.

Stiles and Scott both say something that Derek doesn’t understand because his ears are full of the sound of his blood rushing through his veins and his heartbeat stuttering wildly in his chest.

Stiles’ hand drops onto his head while Scott rattles open his medicine cabinet.

“Hey, buddy,” Stiles says, drawing Derek’s attention to him, He stares at him, puzzled by the affected quality of his voice—almost as if he’s talking to a simple child. Or a skittish animal. “Scotty’s going to get your meds ready and then we’re going to fill out the paperwork so I can take you home tonight. How does that sound?”

Derek wags his tail, letting his tongue loll so he can lick Stiles’ hand. Yuck—it tastes like soap and plastic.

“Anyone who looks at him is going to think wolf,” Scott comments. He holds out three pills in his palm. “I need you to swallow these,” he says to Derek.

Derek backs up so that he can toss them into the bowl. Cautiously, he laps them up, swallowing despite the bitter taste they leave on his tongue.

“What are they?” Stiles’ scent of curiosity spikes and Derek sneezes on the sudden spiciness. He whines, nudging Stiles’ hand until he starts petting him again.

“Anti-worm, uh, anti-tape worm—that’s the kind he has. Anti-stress and anti-nausea,” Scott answers. “He may be a little tired or lethargic while he’s on the anti-stress pills, which he has to take twice a day, morning and night with feedings.” Scott pauses. “Stiles, he really should have around the clock care. I still need to run his bowels to see where exactly the blood in his stool is coming from.”

“When you say run…” Stiles trails off, sounding and smelling horrified. His heartbeat picks up and it makes Derek anxious too.

“Yes,” Scott responds. “I’ll have to open him up and literally run his bowels through my fingers until I find the perforation.” Stiles’ hand tightens on Derek’s scruff. “I expect it to be from an obstruction, likely bone,” Scott continues.

“So why don’t you do that now?”

Scott sighs. “I don’t know the last time he ate. I’ll feed him in a moment and then he needs to fast for at least twelve hours before I can put him under anesthesia.”

“Is that safe?” Stiles asks. “You know, because of the blood and the wound?”

“I have no other choice. Besides, there were no worms close to the surface of his anus because neither the initial exam nor his recent defecation has produced any visible worms.”

“Larvae?”

“I’ll have to test the fecal matter.”

“Can I still take him home tonight?”

“Only if you’re willing to keep him in a carrier overnight to prevent any accidental consumption.”

Derek whines to let them know he will behave. He won’t eat anything even if he gets hungry. He does not want to go back into the small cage at all.

“Well,” Stiles hedges, shifting uncomfortably. Derek flattens his ears and huffs. Stiles scratches under his chin. “I need to pick up some supplies before I’ll be ready for a dog. Even one as well-behaved as Miguel.”

“Oh dear Lord, you named the dog Miguel? Why?”

Stiles shrugs. “It fit.”

Scott shakes his head. “Whatever. You’ll have to always call him Miguel from now on. No exceptions.”

“Really? I can’t change my own dog’s name whenever I want?”

“Not without confusing the poor boy.”

“Miguel’s too smart for that, aren’t you, Fido?” Derek glares balefully at him.

“Fine!” Scott throws his hands up. “Ugh, you’re impossible. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to feed Miguel. And then I’m going to write a comprehensive list of everything you need to properly care for a dog.”

“Sweet.”

Derek doesn’t relish the bowl of dry kibble Scott dishes out, but it certainly beats eating nothing—or rancid raccoon—and he wolfs it down without complaint. Then, he curls in the corner of the kennel while Scott and Stiles make a long list.

~ * ~

“You’ll be okay in here?” Stiles asks Miguel as they pull up to the chain pet store a few blocks from Stiles’ apartment. Miguel whines softly, nosing against the latched door of the dog carrier Scott let him borrow.

“Sorry, dude, you look too much like a wolf for me to take you inside. But, to make it up to you, I’ll buy you a nice toy—which you can have after your bowels surgery tomorrow. I know it doesn’t count as food, but what if you accidentally swallow it? It still counts as feeding you.”

Miguel whines again, presumably because of the reminder of his upcoming surgery (if he even understood the words. Possibly he just doesn’t like being stuck in the carrier). Stiles would feel sorry for him if he did not think it was necessary.

“You’ll feel much better after Scott fixes you.”

Miguel curls into a ball, pulling away from Stiles’ hand. He pointedly licks his intact junk, and Stiles chokes on a laugh.

“No, he’s not ‘fixing’ you that way.” Miguel stops grooming and fixes Stiles with a hopeful gaze. “You’re a smart boy,” Stiles remarks and Miguel lets him pet him again. “Once you’re settled, I’d like to take you to meet my dad.” Stiles combs his fingers through the matted fur. “Definitely buying you a brush set, buddy.”

Miguel perks a bit, almost like he’s afraid to let Stiles see how happy he is about that.

“Hey, you deserve to be brushed as much as the next dog. Plus, not that you smell or anything—” Miguel totally stinks “—but you probably want a bath.” Stiles gets that hope-filled gaze again. It makes him laugh. “You really are special, aren’t you?” he says fondly, scratching Miguel’s ruff. He doesn’t want to leave the poor dog out here, but he really does look like a wolf and Stiles would rather not incite panic in the general public.

“I’ll be back in a jiffy,” he promises. Miguel yawns, licks Stiles’ hand, and lies down with his head tucked between his front paws. Stiles whips out his phone to snap a picture and nearly drops it when Miguel begins growling.

“Okay, okay. I won’t take any pictures of you today. No matter how cute and adorable you look.” Miguel huffs and closes his eyes.

Inside the store, after washing his hands, Stiles walks with purpose and then freezes, staring at the wall of supplies dumbly.

Should he get the brush with wire bristles or the one with plastic? Scott’s list just says ‘brush.’ Should he get a bowl or would a water dispenser be better? What about for food? Does Miguel need a mat under his bowls? Does he need a bed?

Food, too, is on Scott’s list, but again, unhelpfully, it just says ‘food.’ Does that mean wet food or dry food? Indoor food or outdoor food?

And the toys are just as unhelpful, a wall of colorful, stuffing-less, be-squeakered imitation geese and ducks and fox butts. Not to mention the Frisbees, tennis balls, bones, and tug-ropes.

Luckily, an associate, one perky blonde gal with sparkling brown eyes and a sharp, red smile notices his indecision and stops to help him.

“Stilinski,” she greets him with genuine cheer.

“Reyes,” he says back. He and Erica Reyes were in the same grade at school until Erica’s epilepsy got so bad that she had to be homeschooled the last two years of high school.

He’s missed her, always wondering in the back of his mind if she’d turned out okay. Occasionally, they run across each other as he stops for lunch breaks at the various eateries around Beacon Hills and she’s either coming or going and they exchange pleasantries.

“Advances in medicine, eh?” he comments, and she nods.

“Thank God we’ve got Lydia effing Martin in this forsaken town or I wouldn’t have gotten into the study for this newest wonder-drug.” She sends a weary look toward the registers where Stiles can see her manager tapping at her wrist. “Anyway,” Erica continues smoothly, “you look a little overwhelmed. Something in particular you’re looking for?”

“I’ve just got a dog,” Stiles says, and Erica squeals. “Yeah, he’s not doing the hottest. I actually have to take him in tomorrow so that Scott-the vet—can run an obstruction test.”

“Ooh.” Erica winces. “The poor dear. Well, you’ll need a collar and leash, food and water bowls, food, a bed, grooming supplies, and some toys. Now, any old bowls will do as long as they can hold a decent amount of food or water, so you won’t have to buy those if you don’t want to. Toys—sticks and balls should do unless you want to give your new companion a fancy new toy.”

Stiles shakes his head. “I promised him something.” He grabs a rubber pig with a squeaker. “This?”

“Yeah, that’s good. Now, do you know how much your dog weighs, about how old he is, and how active?”

“He’s about fifty or so pounds. I don’t know his age, and I’d guess he’s usually pretty active. He hasn’t seemed interested in moving much since I got him.” Stiles fiddles with the chew toy, depressing it just enough to release a few short squeaks. “Look, he’s emaciated. He should weigh at least another fifty pounds. I thought he was a small female at first because he’s so starved.”

Erica grabs a bag of puppy chow off the shelf and shoves it into Stiles’ arms. “Start him on this—it’s high in protein and carbs so he’ll gain weight without having to overeat. Start with a half cup and work your way up to a full three to four cups a day depending on his activity level. Larger breeds require more feeding. Also, you may want to start with three feedings a day until he reaches a target weight and then switch him to two feedings. Consult with your veterinarian.”

“I think he’s going to be absolutely huge,” Stiles says, thinking of that documentary on wolf sanctuaries Scott made him watch a couple of years ago. “Right now, he’s still small—young.”

“A juvenile, perhaps?” Erica suggests. “Not fully grown?”

“Yeah, perhaps. Certainly his growth could have been impeded by the severe starvation.”

“That’s a likely factor,” Erica agrees. “Listen, I’ve kept you long enough. I’m sure you’re ready to get back to your companion.”

“Yes, I am. Thank you for all your help. It was good to see you again.”

“It was nice to see you too. We should totally get together to catch up. I’d love to meet your companion some time.”

“That would be nice,” Stiles says, at the same time thinking NO! He’s positive she would be freaked out if she saw Miguel. Especially if he puts on the weight (muscle) that he’s supposed to have. He just looks too wolf-like to pass as anything else. All the same, he digs out one of his cards and hands it to Erica. “My cell’s on the back. Give me a call and we can get something set up.”

“That’d be great.” Erica tucks the card into her back pocket. “I’ll definitely do that. See you later, Stiles.”

“You too, Erica.”

It takes another fifteen minutes (because Stiles realized too late that he really should have grabbed a cart and had to go chase one down) to pick out the perfect bed for Miguel—not that he’ll be using it until he’s worm-free—along with a blue leash set for large dogs, a matching collar, more of the brand puppy chow Erica showed him, the wire brush, and the squeaker pig and then check out.

By the time he gets back to the car, Miguel is sacked out, snoring lightly. The heat isn’t too bad for late October and there’s a gentle breeze. Stiles is glad he remembered to roll down the windows before going inside since it took him about forty-five minutes longer than he’d planned.

He unloads the cart quickly, stashing everything in the trunk and slamming the lid closed. He winces when he hears Miguel startle awake with that quiet yelp-thing he does. Stiles takes the cart and shoves it into the corral with a clatter before returning to his vehicle. In the back, Miguel is whining, sniffing the air pointedly. He settles as soon as Stiles sinks into the driver’s seat.

“Sorry about that, buddy,” Stiles apologizes, putting his hand into the carrier for Miguel to lick. “You ready to head home?”

Of course, Miguel doesn’t respond, but he does lie down and set his head between his paws again.

Stiles turns around and buckles his seatbelt before turning on the engine. He’s looking forward to enjoying his night in front of the television, Miguel in his carrier next to him while they watch the Mets lose.

The perfect end to this not-entirely-perfect day.

~ * ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, it's not Wednesday. I ended up having to work (on my day off) and then the power went out for over five hours. Yay! But, we're all okay and we should be back to the weekly posting next week. Thanks for reading!  
> Also, it’s unedited. I will go back through when I have more time and fix typos. Go ahead and point any out that you see if you want. Thanks!


	6. Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note: I am not a medical professional. I do basic research. If I got something wrong, don't hesitate to let me know. Thanks!

~ * ~

Derek wakes up when Stiles sets the cage on the kitchen floor before he goes back to get the supplies he bought at the pet store. As soon as Derek sees the bags of dog food, his stomach flips. On the one hand, what the vet gave him earlier was not enough and he’s hungry again. But on the other hand _she_ used to feed him dog food when he’d been particularly misbehaving. He doesn’t think he’s done anything to piss off Stiles, but maybe not letting the deputy take pictures of him was a worthy offense of having to eat kibble.

Derek whines in discomfort, and suddenly Stiles stoops down next to him.

“I know, buddy,” he says, “but I can’t feed you on orders of the vet. I can ask him if you can have any water. I think you can but I forgot to ask. I’m sorry about that.”

Derek shrugs as best he can despite being in the shape of a wolf. Going without water is nothing new to him, and Stiles truly seems apologetic about forgetting to ask Scott before leaving the vet clinic.

He whines again, nosing at the door of the cage. He wants out, wants to follow Stiles around and explore the house. He doesn’t want to be stuck in this prison all night.

“No,” Stiles says, like that’s the end of it. He moves away, phone to his ear as he calls Scott. While he is preoccupied, Derek practices shifting back to human.

The cage is too small for him to shift fully, and it takes more energy than he has but he finds that if he concentrates hard enough he is able to maintain a human hand instead of a wolf paw. He lets it melt back to wolf and licks it.

Stiles taps the top of the cage, and Derek shoots him an unimpressed glare despite being startled. He should have heard him even with his dulled hearing.

“You can have water as long as I remember to take it away before your surgery at 10:00 tomorrow morning. Scott said you can be out of the carrier too as long as there’s nothing for you to eat. I’m thinking the bathroom would be a good place for you.”

He lugs the cage down a short hallway past a garish red couch and two closed doors before he backs into the bathroom. The first thing Derek sees is the toilet, and he stares at it, wrinkling his nose. The lid is down and it’s covered by a cushion that matches the same hideous red of the couch.

Derek whimpers to remind Stiles that he’s still in the cage. Stiles, of course, doesn’t understand him, and he moves away when his phone starts ringing.

“Stilinski.”

Derek can’t hear the person on the other side, but from Stiles’ clipped responses and the brisk way he said his name, it’s his workplace.

“Yeah, I can come in.” The look he gives Derek is sad. “No. I’m not doing anything too important. All right. I’ll be there in fifteen. Bye.”

Stiles shoves his phone in his pocket and kneels next to the cage. “So, buddy,” he says. “I’ve gotta go fill out some paperwork. Will you be okay by yourself?”

Derek huffs, nuzzling at the hand that Stiles sticks through the wire door.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” Stiles opens the cage and Derek bounds out. He starts sniffing everything, starting with the toilet and Stiles’ hamper of dirty clothes. Stiles watches him amused.

“Okay, buddy, I have to go now. I’ll try to be home soon.” Stiles pats Derek’s head and leave the bathroom. He closes and locks the door behind him.

It would make Derek worry, but the door can only lock from the inside so he isn’t locked in, the world is locked out.

He waits until he hears Stiles’ vehicle pull away before he concentrates on shifting back to being fully human.

It’s a painful process that takes longer than Derek can afford, but when he’s done, he can stand up on his shaky legs. The food the vet gave him must be providing the energy he’s using now. With his even-shakier hands, Derek is able to pry up the lid to the toilet so that he can aim a stream into the bowl.

It doesn’t occur to him until he’s flushed and washed his hands that he should have pissed in a corner. Oh well. He’ll be here all night. He can do it later.

For now though, he wants to explore Stiles’ house. The door is easily unlocked and then he wanders from room to room, looking at the trinkets and artifacts of Stiles’ life.

In the room closest to the bathroom, Derek finds stacks of boxes that smell faintly of a woman’s perfume. Honestly, it feels like an un-set up shrine, and the dead-feel of it makes Derek’s skin crawl.

The next room is Stiles’ bedroom, and Derek spends some time tolling across the unmade bed, smelling Stiles’ strong, spicy scent. As humans go, it’s appealing. Derek wishes Stiles would let him sleep in here with him instead of in the bathroom.

Odds are good that he’ll have the dog bed in there with him.

First chance he gets, Derek is going to sleep on the couch—in wolf form or human.

By the time he recalls that Stiles will be home at some point this night, Derek has explored the whole house, returning to and relocking himself in the bathroom.

He would have eaten during his excursion since he’s still starving, but even an unobservant human would notice if his meager stash of microwavable Hot Pockets suddenly depleted. Especially if that human lives alone.

Instead, Derek decides to satiate his hunger with cold water.

The sink is a little tricky since neither handle is labeled and one sticks until he can exert a bit more strength than an average almost-sixteen year old would have. Eventually, though, he figures out which is the cold tap and drinks until his stomach distends from it and hurts a little bit. He can feel his intestines starting to cramp.

Maybe a hot bath would help?

It’s been almost a year since his last shower. No wonder Stiles wanted to give him a bath earlier.

Derek digs through the different bottles of soap lined up neatly on the edge of the tub. Nothing smells good enough to use, not even the mostly empty bottle of Irish Spring that Stiles obviously uses regularly.

Another cramp hits and he doubles over clutching at his roiling stomach. He imagines that deep in his bowels he can feel the worms Scott said he had bunching together and wriggling around. It hurts enough to rip a whimper from him.

Derek curls as tightly as he can, knees up to his chest, arms wrapped around his stomach. He lies on his side on the floor, crying in pain as a large mass travels through his bowels and splatters against the tiles when he can’t hold it in.

In the middle of another contraction, the bathroom door smashes open and Stiles, service weapon in hand, stares down at Derek’s naked, heaving body in horror.

“Who are you?” Stiles demands, anger and fear roughening his tone.

Derek doesn’t respond. To do so is not an option.

The last time he told someone his name, she abducted him and stole him away to the other side of the country.

Instead, stupidly, Derek begins shifting, hands turning to paws, nose lengthening into a muzzle. Fur sprouts over his body and his bones crack as they break apart and reform into something else. And through it all, his gut clenches and more mess spills out of him.

In the midst of the pain of the shift and the pain from the worms his body is expelling, Derek fails to notice Stiles lifting another weapon from his belt, aiming it at him, and pulling the trigger.

Fire burns against Derek’s skin, and he screams, completely human again. He sobs at the growing pain, tracking it to a trio of barbs stuck in his skin.

Electricity—taser— _she’s_ back! _She_ found him!

Derek curls tighter, crying harder from the pain and fear.

“Hey, hey,” Stiles says, soothingly, his hand coming to rest on Derek’s shoulder. At least he’s stopped the flow of electricity—even if Derek can still feel it twitching in his muscles. He’s still in pain, still cramping and shitting, but at least Stiles isn’t adding to his hurt anymore. “That’s it. Good boy.” A tiny pinprick registers, and Derek turns his head to see Stiles tossing away a used syringe.

Derek’s head swims, a heavy sensation pressing against his eyes, forcing his head back down.

He’s too disconnected, though, to be angry at Stiles’ second betrayal, but he vows to hate the man with his whole being when he’s himself again…if he survives this.

Whatever was in the syringe is making his whole body stiff and weighted down but it also makes his mind soar high, and Derek passes out between one breath and the next.

~ * ~

Stiles isn’t sure what to think. One minute he’s heading into his bathroom to check on Miguel because he can hear him whimpering in pain and the next he’s come face to face with a stranger who begins changing into another creature right before his eyes.

He paces, hands in his hair. Where _is_ Miguel? And why did the boy, a teenager with overgrown hair and frail frame, look like he was turning into a wolf—a black wolf?

Using the toe of his boot, Stiles turns the boy onto his side. The stench of diarrhea makes Stiles grimace. It’s watery and icky and moving.

Wait, what?

Stiles leans closer, holding his breath. The crap smeared all over the boy’s lower half and the floor beneath him is definitely wriggling. Or rather, the worms in the crap are wriggling.

Stiles backs away, thinking.

“Miguel?” he whispers out loud. Predictably, the boy doesn’t respond. It fits, though, Stiles knows. The boy is in the bathroom where Stiles left Miguel. Miguel isn’t here anymore and instead the boy is.

Scott was right though, the wolf had worms. He’ll want a sample. Stiles makes a face but goes to grab one of the canning jars his dad gifted him a few Christmases back when Stiles went through a phase of preserving or pickling everything he could.

Using a disposable spoon, and double-gloved with latex-free single-use gloves, Stiles scoops some of the fecal matter into the jar, making sure to catch a few dozen worms for good measure.

Then, he bags the jar, with the lid sealed with clear packing tape, into a dozen or so t-shirt bags.

Scott will be so pleased to have this sample, Stiles thinks.

Through it all, the boy—Miguel really—still sleeps on. Stiles thinks it’s more from exhaustion than from the ketamine he injected the boy with.

No, ketamine isn’t standard issue (in fact, without Stiles’ prescription, it’s not legal at all), but after the number one incident on his list of weird things, Stiles has taken to carrying a tiny amount for emergencies.

Stiles really should call someone about the boy. His first instinct is to call his dad, after all, John was the sheriff for nearly fifteen years before he lost the last election to Michael Lahey, Isaac’s father. But, what would his dad know about shape-shifters, specifically lycanthropes?

Then, Stiles thinks of Animal Control. And immediately discards that thought because Miguel is still human. Boyd and Lahey might report him for ‘playing a prank.’

That just leaves Scott. Scott who just treated Miguel. Scott who closes his place of business in like fifteen minutes.

Stiles fumbles his phone from his pocket, dialing the number for the clinic quickly.

“Beacon Hills Vet Clinic,” Scott answers. Stiles sends a silent thank you skyward.

“Scot, Scotty. I know you’re closing  but I have an emergency with Miguel. He took a shit and all these little worms—each one barely bigger than a fingernail clipping—came out of him. I’m freaking out here, man.”

“Did he eat anything after what I fed him?”

Stiles hasn’t had a chance to check that, but he doesn’t think so. He would have smelled anything Miguel nuked to eat unless he ate it frozen. The teeth, he recalls, would most likely make that not an issue. “No,” Stiles decides. Miguel probably would have thrown up too instead of just defecating all over the place.

“Are the worms moving?”

Stiles looks down at the mess that he still needs to clean up. “Yep,” he says. “They are definitely moving.”

“Okay. Was the…shit solid or—?”

“Liquid. Diarrhea, actually.”

“Okay, well, that’s a normal reaction to the medication I gave him. But if you’re still unsure, go ahead and bring him in. I’ll be here.”

“Thanks, Scott, you’re a lifesaver.”

“Sure whatever. You say that now,” Scott jokes. “Just wait until I can’t do anything for Miguel because he just needs to wait it out.”

“You say that now,” Stiles parrots back. “Look, I’m going to clean him up a little, get him in the carrier, and head your way. It might take me half an hour.” Scott doesn’t answer, so Stiles hangs up.

Miguel stirs when Stiles moves closer to get a better look at him. Panicking, Stiles grabs his stun gun and shocks the boy again until he slumps back down, unconscious.

Stiles feels a lot guilty when he realizes Miguel can’t be more than fourteen or fifteen. Albeit a fourteen or fifteen year old who can shape-shift into a wolf.

Stiles sighs and tugs on his hair again. Then, he rubs his face and mutters, “Aw crap, kid.”

~ * ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I still feel bad about missing my deadline last week (no matter how arbitrary), so here, have this chapter a day early!


	7. Five

~ * ~

Derek wakes up briefly when Stiles lifts him into the tub and he sinks into the few inches of hot water. He whimpers at the obvious temperature change and then he rolls onto his side and drifts off again.

He keeps waking as Stiles scrubs him of the mess, but it’s difficult to keep his eyes open for very long.

He finally rouses when Stiles leaves him seated on the covered toilet lid, wrapped in a scratchy, threadbare towel too faded to distinguish its original color. Derek is cold and shivering. His bowels are still kinked from the worms (but at least he’s stopped releasing them for now), and frankly he’s too tired to try shifting again.

Besides, Stiles returns before he can do anything but pull the towel tighter around himself.

“So it took some digging but I think I’ve got some clothes that will fit you.”

Derek doesn’t respond. He can still feel the barbs of the taser in his skin even though he’s long healed. Stiles is not his friend or his savior. He’s another predator intent on torturing Derek.

“Miguel?” Stiles says softly. Derek glares at him, trying to burn his face off with the intensity of his stare alone. “Not Miguel? Wanna tell me your real name?”

Derek glares harder.

“Okay then.” Stiles sighs and runs his hands over his face. “Let’s get you dressed. Can you stand up?”

The towel is too short. Derek’s butt and penis will be exposed. And he’s still too cold anyway.

“Fine,” Stiles snaps. He grabs the edge of the towel and jerks.

Derek yells in anger, launching himself at the man, pounding his fists against his chest. Stiles catches both wrists in one hand, and Derek realizes then how much smaller he is compared to Stiles. He barely reaches Stiles’ shoulder and Stiles weighs at least triple what Derek does, maybe even quadruple—Stiles is much heavier than Derek.

“That’s enough of that. Either you dress yourself or I’ll do it for you.” Stiles lets him go.

Sullenly, Derek holds out his hand. Stiles gives him a faded graphic t-shirt, the design, a blue-white-and-red bullseye is cracked and mostly peeled off. It’s too big on Derek’s frame but it feels…almost good. The pants, a maroon pair of track pants are also too big and they feel restrictive even though Stiles offered no undergarments.

“Ready?”

Derek bolts for the door as an answer. He hears Stiles swear before his body shorts out and he falls to the ground, writhing as Stiles keeps the trigger on his taser depressed.

“No! No!” Derek cries as Stiles approaches him. “Please, no!” He passes out before Stiles stops electrocuting him.

~ * ~

Stiles drums his fingers on the steering wheel of his faithful Jeep, Roscoe. He changed out of his uniform earlier after cleaning up the bathroom, but he’s still got his belt on with his backup 92 Compact Beretta in the holster instead of his primary 9mm Glock. He also has his taser and stun gun with him. In the backseat, wrapped in a ratty old blanket he’s had since high school, Miguel sleeps fitfully.

The boy is skittish, no doubt. Stiles wonders what happened to him to make him that way. Whatever it was, it probably has something to do with his nearly skeletal frame. Dear God, it doesn’t look like the boy has eaten in years! Stiles doesn’t understand how he’s still going, standing up, walking, fighting. The weight he is and the weight he should be are nowhere close together.

Stiles pulls up to the clinic, relieved to see Scott outside, fiddling with his phone.

“Hey, buddy,” Stiles says when Scott saunters to his open window. “Mind helping me carry Miguel inside?”

Scott gapes at the boy. “That’s not a dog!” He turns an accusing glare on Stiles. “You said there was a worm emergency with Miguel.”

“Yeah, there was. I saved you a stool sample.” Stiles points at the bagged mason jar sitting in an empty plastic ice cream pail. “Now, you are probably going to have a hard time grasping this but the boy in my backseat _is_ Miguel. He can shape-shift into a wolf.” Which means Scott made the boy eat dog food. Stiles would laugh if he didn’t think it was the only food Miguel’s had for at least a while judging by the dirt still caked on his skin.

“You’re right,” Scott says, “I am having a hard time believing that. I mean, Stiles, werewolves? Werewolves aren’t real.”

“That’s what I thought, and then I walked in on Miguel in mid-shift.” Technically, Stiles is positive he scared the boy into shifting, but that’s beside the point.

“I still don’t believe it,” Scott says. “For now, we should really get this boy to the hospital.”

“No, because this is Miguel, the wolf-dog. The lycanthrope. How is a hospital going to help him?”

“Because he’s human, Stiles!”

“But he’s not human, not really.” Scott glares at him. “Fine. I’ll call Lydia Martin and see if she can spare us a few minutes.”

“Seriously, Stiles? This child is ill—emaciated and malnourished and full of worms! What about that says a vet is the best place for him?”

“Um, maybe the fact that he used to be a wolf?” Stiles pulls out his phone to signal the end of the conversation. Scott huffs and turns away while Stiles climbs out of Roscoe. Lydia takes her time to answer his call.

“Stiles,” she says without greeting when she finally does pick up. “What do you need now?”

Ouch. The last time he bugged her was maybe a week ago when he was trying to find out what Christmas gift he should get her and her wife. To be fair to her, nothing Stiles does is subtle, and she’s probably still suffering whiplash from the last time.

“Lydia, light of my life,” he sings into the phone, cajoling. Can’t hurt, he thinks. “My ever-brilliant goddess, my sweet straw—”

“Get to your point, Stilinski, before I hang up on your pathetic ass.”

Stiles winces. Okay, so it could hurt. “I need you to come by the vet clinic. I have a very interesting case for you.”

“Is this a ploy to get me to agree to a date with you?”

Is that why she’s always so frosty toward him? She thinks he’s still burning a torch for her? Stiles laughs. “No, I gave up all hope of ever going out with you when you kissed your best friend senior year at prom. Speaking of Allison, why don’t you bring her along too? I’m sure we could use her expertise in a situation like this.”

“You know I’m mostly a researcher with a medical background, right?” Lydia reminds him. “I won’t be able to help with anything major, and you really should take Scott to the ER if it’s a serious injury.”

“It’s not Scott,” Stiles says. “It’s Miguel.”

“Who, Stiles, in the ever loving _fuck_ is Miguel?”

“My dog?” Stiles winces, waiting for her outburst. Surprisingly, it comes in the form of her laughing uproariously at him.

“Your dog?” she manages to squeak out when she’s gotten her giggles mostly under control.

“Yes,” Stiles says. “Well, he’s not mine yet. I’m just fostering him right now. My problem though is he’s not just a dog.”

Stiles swears he can hear Lydia’s eyebrow rising as her interest is piqued (but he could also attribute it to her finally corralling all her errant giggles).

Stiles sighs. “It’s easier if you just come in. Please?”

“Allison and I will be down in about fifteen minutes.”

“Thank you,” Stiles says to a dead line. He’ll just tell her in person then. “Hey, Scott, Lydia and Allison will be—” And he’s talking to an empty parking lot. Stiles sighs again and stomps into the clinic.

Scot already has Miguel on the operating table, and he’s examining the boy’s eyes with his eye-light thingy.

“Pupils have a slowed response,” Scott remarks, offhand. “Did he hit his head at all?”

“No, not that I saw. Any idea on why he’s still unconscious?”

Scott shakes his head. “Not without knowing exactly how he lost consciousness in the first place.”

“Oh, that.” Stiles scratches at the back of his head and shuffles his feet. “He tried to run so I tasered him.”

“You what?!” Scott glares at him.

“Hey, I’m a cop. I see a threat, I neutralize it…with nonlethal force.”

“How on Earth is _that_ ,” Scott stabs a finger at Miguel, “a threat, Stiles!”

“He attacked me and then tried to escape. He’s lucky all he got was the taser.”

“Why am I here?” a small, rough voice asks.

“Now he’s awake,” Stiles says. “You should probably examine him again.”

“I’m a veterinarian,” Scott says. “The very definition of that word is a doctor for animals. His physiology is completely different from what I’ve studied.”

All the same, he moves to the table and places a hand on Miguel’s shoulder.

“How are you feeling?” he asks.

Miguel shrugs.

“Any pain?”

Miguel nods.

“Show me?”

The boy puts both hands on his stomach. Scott palpitates it gently before opening a drawer to pull out his stethoscope. Miguel looks absolutely terrified as Scott blows on the end of it before he places it on his stomach.

Stiles’ phone buzzes, distracting him. It’s Lydia texting him. She and Allison are outside.

“I’m going to get the Martins,” he tells Scott.

Scott only grunts, still listening to Miguel’s abdomen.

Stiles shakes his head and leaves.

~ * ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter, I know. You waited all week for _this_? Well, next week will be much longer.
> 
> Also, if I missed anything in the medical way, don't hesitate to let me know.
> 
> *Eye-light-thingy = ophthalmoscope.
> 
> Also, also: Sorry. Stiles keeps going for his taser. Even Scott is appalled. :)


	8. Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you think I'm missing any tags, let me know. Thanks!

~ * ~

As soon as the deputy leaves the room, Derek struggles to sit up. Where Scott is touching him is burning hot but the rest of his body feels cold. He also needs to take a dump ASAP.

“Well, I can definitely feel and hear the worms moving around in there,” Scott says, voice affected, like he’s trying too hard to be casual. “Do you want to try passing them or would you like to wait?”

“Pass,” Derek mutters. His voice is thin, grating, and it hurts his throat to speak. He thinks it’s because he screamed when he was electrocuted.

“Pass, as in pass the worms?” he clarifies. Derek stares at him blankly. “I’ll take that as a yes. Come on, the bathroom is right here.” Scott helps him off the table and steadies Derek when his legs threaten to give out. Then, Scott opens a narrow door painted white to make it stand out from the steel blue of the walls. He tugs on a pull chain and a bare bulb lights up, throwing thin shadows over everything.

The tiny room encompasses a wobbly toilet with rust stains around the base and a miniature sink with surprisingly modern handles and spout. The bottle of hand soap set on the side of the sink is scummy and gross and the mirror hanging above it is water-stained.

“Leave the door unlocked so that I can help you in case of an emergency.”

Derek nods, already pulling down the pants. He manages to squat over the toilet in time before a mess of worms and liquid shit explodes out of him. The pressure in his stomach lessens somewhat, and he settles in to wait out the spasms of his intestines.

He hears footsteps, two sets of high heels and Stiles’ heavy tread, enter the room that Scott is in.

“Lydia, Allison,” Scott says amiably even though Derek can hear his heartbeat pick up.

“Scott,” one of the high heels wearers says, her voice low, lilting. “Where is the dog that isn’t a dog?”

“He’s pooping.” Scott sounds like he’s smirking. “I’m sure you and I can agree, as medical professionals, that the boy, er, dog, really should go to the hospital.”

“I would agree,” the woman says, amused, “but first I’d like to see him if I may.”

“Wait, wait,” Scott says, as the woman strides purposefully toward the bathroom. Derek’s body chooses that moment to let out another spurt of worms. Since they’re only coated in bile this time, it hurts, and Derek bites back a series of whimpers as his tender rectum strains and relaxes rhythmically.

He glances up when the door creaks open and is faced with a woman, fair skin, long, red hair loose in waves down to her shoulders. She’s wearing nice clothes, a dark blue dress with pockets at hip level, a thin gold chain around her neck, a single diamond ring on her left hand.

“Hello,” she says, her eyes kind. His cheeks burn in mortification especially because another gush of worms falls from him, splashing into the mostly full toilet.

“May I please have your name?”

Derek shakes his head. The moment they discover his real name, he is dead. “Miguel is fine,” he says.

“Are you running away from someone, Miguel, that you can’t give me your name?”

It’s an out, and it is what he’s doing—mostly. He nods, and she gets a strange look on her face.

“What are you doing right now?” she asks.

“Pooping,” Scott answers for him. “How are you doing there, bud?”

“Hurts,” Derek admits.

Scott shoves the woman aside and kneels next to the toilet. “Hey, bud, you feel safe enough to go to the hospital?”

Derek shakes his head. Hospitals ask questions. They take pictures and file reports. He won’t be able to treated without _her_ learning of it.

“The doctors there can provide better care for you than Lydia or I can,” Scott says.

Derek shakes his head again. “I can’t go to the hospital,” he says. “They will find me then.”

“Who’s they?” Stiles asks from the doorway. Derek flinches.

Scott goes to push him away, but Stiles ducks under his arm and stomps forward. “Who are they?” he repeats, sounding angry.

Derek glares at him but remains silent. Stiles can torture him all he likes, Derek won’t talk.

“Are you going to tase him again?” Scott spits as he successfully forces Stiles out of the bathroom.

“You did what?!” the woman, Lydia Derek would guess, demands, following them.

Another woman waits by the door, frowning at the escalating argument. Eventually, she turns to Derek and slips into the room, her red dress swishing softly around her legs as she pulls a stepstool from a shadowed corner. She sits on it next to him.

“Hi, hon,” she says softly, like Derek is a wild animal ready to bolt. Something about her voice reminds him of _her_. “I’m a psychiatrist. I specialize in juvenile trauma cases. Anything you tell me, even your name, is protected by doctor-patient privilege.”

Derek ignores her. His bowels have thankfully stopped expelling worms, but he is hyperaware of the fact that he is half-naked, sitting on a toilet filled with disgusting things. How she can sit there apparently unaffected is beyond him.

“I’m Allison,” she continues. “Can you share something about yourself?”

“What is doctor-patient privilege?”

Allison smiles, dimples in her cheeks. “It means that anything you tell me I can’t tell anyone else.”

“Even the police?”

“Even the police,” Allison confirms.

“Even if they torture you?” he asks. Allison’s smile disappears. Derek makes a mental note to not say anything about his time with _her_.

“Has anyone ever tortured you?”

“No.” Derek ducks his head. “No torture.” He can hear Allison’s heartbeat accelerating. She doesn’t believe him. He sighs. “Yes,” he admits quietly.

“Who did it? Can you say?”

Derek shrugs. “I’d rather not. If I say too much, they’ll find me.”

“Who are they?”

Derek crosses his arms over his chest instead of answering.

Allison sighs. “Fine. At least tell me your name. And don’t tell me it’s Miguel.”

Derek frowns at her. If she really is bound by doctor-patient privilege…Surely it can’t hurt to have one adult who can help him get back to his family. “I’m Derek,” he says softly so that the other adults won’t overhear him.

Allison’s smile reappears even if it is a bit shaky still and her heartbeat hasn’t quite settled. “Well, Derek, it’s nice to meet you.”

Derek glances down to where the t-shirt is thankfully pooled over his lap. “Can I clean up now or do you want to ask more questions?”

Allison’s face reddens and she stands up quickly, taking the stool with her as she backs away. “No, go ahead. Just, let us know if you need anything.”

Derek doesn’t say anything and Allison leaves.

“Don’t flush the toilet!” Scott calls. “I don’t want to be responsible for an influx of heart worms into the water supply.”

Derek grumbles a little since it stinks bad enough to burn his nose, but he obeys, grabbing the half-roll of toilet paper from the tank and using it to scrub at the scummy stuff sticking to his skin.

He feels unsanitary when he’s done—and this is after having lived on the run for six weeks. He whines high in his throat, staring at the worms swarming in the bowl. The stench of everything makes him feel ill, but he knows that his body has purged all the worms. He’s starting to heal slowly.

Maybe whatever _her_ vet had injected him with, that inhibitor, is finally wearing off. Derek doesn’t know or care. He’s on his way to being one hundred percent, something that hasn’t happened in three years. He feels strong enough to stand at the sink and wash as best he can with the paper towels soaked in warm water.

He strains his ears but despite the return of his hearing, he can’t focus well enough to listen past the blast of the faucet.

Eventually, the paper is clear of yellow-brown sludge, and Derek pulls the pants up, tying the frayed drawstring tight so that the waistband is snug against his skin. Then, he turns the water on as hot as he can stand it and scrubs at his hands until most of the dirt is gone and his skin is redder than Allison’s blush.

Done with that, he shuts off the tap and exists the bathroom, tugging the pull chain of the light as he goes.

Immediately, he notices that Stiles is sitting on the examination table and that Allison and Lydia have taken up residence in a bank of chairs against the far wall. Scott is sorting through a drawer of jumbled instruments.

“—red something like this?” Stiles is saying. Scott grunts.

“We need to discuss treatment,” Lydia says pointedly.

“What’s there to discuss?” Scott retorts. “He’s human, so he needs to go to the hospital.”

“I would agree,” Lydia says calmly. “But, Stiles is insistent that he can turn into a wolf and therefore isn’t truly human.”

“Where’s the proof then?” Scott demands. “So far all I’ve seen is an emaciated wolf-dog hybrid and now an emaciated teenager. There’s no correlation between the two except that both of them were brought to me by Stiles.”

Derek realizes that he could shift right now and prove Stiles right. But, that would ruin the clothes Stiles gave him. He could do a partial shift, just his beta form, instead of the full delta shift.

He doesn’t want to shift though. He is tired and he just expelled a bunch of worms. He deserves to rest. Let the adults bicker among themselves. Besides, Stiles would probably just tase Derek again when he’s shifted. No thank you.

“Fine!” Scott throws his hands up even though no one said anything. He stomps over to a phone mounted by the doorway to the front room and picks up the receiver. He finds a number quickly and dials it, stabbing at the buttons with more force than necessary.

“Hey, Alan,” Scott says into the phone. “How’s retirement treating you?”

A man’s tinny voice responds, and even though it’s too faint to make out what he says, Derek doesn’t like his tone.

Lydia is the first to notice that Derek is no longer in the bathroom. She pats the empty chair between her seat and Allison’s. Derek stiffly perches on the edge of it. He’s still tender, but it is much better than it was.

“Hey,” Stiles says. Derek ignores him. “Hey,” he says louder. “I’m sorry for tasing you.”

Derek ignores him harder, clenching his fists until he thinks he might break his own hands. “You startled me and it was an instinctual reaction.”

“So what was the second one for?” Derek bursts out. His voice wavers dangerously close to crying—it’s a weakness he won’t show these humans—except suddenly he _is_ crying. Lydia and Allison both grab his hands so he can’t cover his face.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles says again and for the first time it sounds sincere.

Scott hangs up the phone before Derek can do more than sniffle unhappily.

“Well,” Scott says, clapping his hands together with a bang that makes all of them jump, “Deaton’s on his way. He says we can’t take Miguel to the hospital because they aren’t equipped to handle him.”

“Sounds like bullshit,” Lydia remarks offhandedly.

“Hey,” Stiles says, “think we should call my dad too? I mean, he was the sheriff for fifteen years. Maybe he encountered something like this in his time.”

Scott shrugs. “Worth a shot.” Then he leans down to stare at Derek. “You doing okay there, bud?”

“He’s probably tired or hungry or something,” Stiles suggests. “While we’re waiting for your old boss and my dad, why doesn’t he try to sleep? Besides, we still have to contain the worms he did shit out.”

“You,” Lydia points at Stiles, “are gross. However, you are probably correct that…Miguel needs rest. Scott, don’t you have a couch in your office for emergency sleep?”

Scott nods. “If that’d be okay?” he asks Derek.

“A nap,” he says incredulously. “You’re putting me down for a nap?”

At least the adults all look a little sheepish.

“It’s either that or I listen for worms again.”

Derek frowns at Scott. “There are no more worms in me. I don’t need you to do anything. I’m hungry, not tired.” He’s both but they don’t need to know. Anyway, he’d rather get something to eat right now.

“Why don’t you lie down and pretend to sleep and I’ll bring you some food,” Stiles proposes. Derek nods. That is a good idea. He can actually rest while he waits. “Cheeseburgers okay?”

“Stiles!” Lydia snaps. “You don’t feed emaciated people heavy, greasy food! Broth, thin soup. Maybe some light solids like crackers. If you give him something heavy, his body might reject it and it will end up hurting him more.”

“Like the raccoon?” Derek asks. “I thought it might have been because it was rotten…” He trails off, noticing the horrified faces the adults are making.

“You ate a rotting raccoon?!” Allison is the first to recover. Derek wishes she hadn’t because her voice is shrill and it hurts his ears. “Why would you do that?”

“ _When_ did you eat that raccoon?” Stiles asks. His scent has gone off, like _hers_ used to when _she_ was close to figuring something out. “ _Where_ did you eat it?”

Derek shrugs, staring down at his dirty bare feet. He never knew skin could hold so much soil.

Stiles snaps his fingers. “Access Road 17 where I found you. There’s been a road-kill raccoon out there for about a week. Is that what you ate?”

Derek doesn’t answer, watching the deputy through his bangs. He doesn’t want Stiles to electrocute him again. It hasn’t escaped his notice that Stiles has both the taser and the stun gun on his belt.

Allison gentles her tone when she asks, “Who would make you do that?”

“It’s survival,” Derek explains. “I couldn’t smell anything else, so I ate it. It’s how I kept under the radar so they wouldn’t find me.”

“Again with the they,” Stiles says. “And how did that work out for you, eating the rotten raccoon?”

“I threw it up almost immediately.”

“No burgers,” Scott says, pointing at Stiles. “No fries, no fried food in general.”

Stiles immediately starts arguing, but it’s clear he’s not going to win this round.

Derek glares at them without heat. He’s too used to be denied food for it to affect him at this point. If it comes to it, he’ll just eat more of the dry dog food. “I’ll go lie down now,” he says quietly, and heads for the door labeled as the office. None of the still-arguing adults notice that he detours by the steel-gray metal cabinet with different animal food labels plastered over the front. He crams fistfuls of kibble into the pants’ pockets before slipping into the office. Once inside, he locates the most bowl-like object, which happens to be a NY Mets baseball cap hanging on an otherwise bare metal coat rack.

Derek empties the kibble into the hat and then hides the hat in a drawer of the filing cabinet. Done with that task, he takes in the room.

It’s a decent size overall, with enough space for two metal cabinets and the lone filing cabinet, a large wooden desk (the first piece of furniture that isn’t all metal), the coat rack, and the promised couch (the second non-metal furniture).

Derek touches it, glad that he scrubbed most of the dirt off; the bath Stiles gave him earlier was perfunctory at best and only served to wash off some of his accumulated grime.

This couch is blue and soft, and there’s stinky pillow on one end and a sloppily folded blanket on the other side. Apparently, Scott uses this couch frequently.

It’s warm enough that Derek doesn’t need a blanket anyway so he refolds it, wrinkling his nose at the pungent smell of sour sweat and sick animals. He stacks the blanket and the pillow on the rolling desk chair.

Then, when everything is all neat again, he lies on the couch and tries not to smell the stench of Scott soaked into the fabric.

He’s aware of Scott checking on him at one point, but then his mind goes blank and he drifts off, dreaming of couches filled with writhing, stinking worms and _her_ voice counting down.

~ * ~

Stiles opts to go inside the _Burger Joint_ to order two cheeseburgers with the works and a double order of curly fries. He runs, almost literally, into Boyd and Lahey.

“Hey, Stilinski!” Lahey yells. Stiles winces at the volume. Boyd must agree because he smacks Lahey’s shoulder. “How’s the wolf doing so far?” Lahey continues quieter.

“He’s not a wolf,” Stiles says, recalling Miguel the boy. There is something familiar about his face, now that Stiles thinks about it. “He’s less than a quarter wolf, which means in the eyes of the state, he’s a dog.”

Lahey eyes the large bag in Stiles’ hand. “You’re not going to feed him that, are you?”

“No, of course not. Actually, he’s fasting right now so that Scott can check for obstructions in his bowels.”

“Why would he need to fast for that?” Lahey asks. Boyd hits his shoulder again.

“Because it’s an operation, duh. McCall’s got to cut the wolf open and run his bowels through his fingers until he finds the blockage,” Boyd explains.

“Then what? Does he push it out?”

“No. If he can find the obstruction he’ll likely just excise a portion of the intestines depending on how bad it is.”

Lahey winces. “That sounds horrible.”

“It is,” Boyd agrees.

“Look,” Stiles says, checking his watch for show, “it was nice running into you guys. Twice in one day! But, I’ve got to get back to Miguel.”

“You named the wolf _Miguel_?” Lahey stares at him aghast. Boyd raises an eyebrow, unimpressed, as if he expected nothing less from Stiles.

“I’m fostering him,” he says, shrugging. “I think I can call the _dog_ whatever I damn well please.”

“Seriously?” Lahey continues. “You named that poor thing after your imaginary cousin from middle school?” Stiles blinks at him. He had forgotten about that embarrassing period of his life.

Suddenly, Boyd elbows Lahey sharply. “Shut up, Isaac. Stiles is right that he can call his dog what he wants. On the other hand, if you want to eat any time today, you should go order. Get me a number six with water.” Lahey grumbles but grudgingly joins the queue.

Boyd grabs Stiles’ arm before he can slip away. “You and I both know your ‘dog’ is a full-blood wolf. He may seem tame, but so does a trained monkey. If I hear even one complaint about ‘Miguel,’ whether he’s eating your neighbor’s pets or just crapping in their yards, I’ll make sure you lose your job at the Sheriff’s Station and that you can’t get another job here in town.”

Stiles stares at him, not quite believing that mild-mannered Boyd is threatening him.

“Have a nice night, Stilinski.” Boyd pats his back and strolls to Lahey’s side.

Stiles shrugs it off, puts it down to a bad day for Boyd, and makes his way toward the door. He stops to hold it open for Mr. and Mrs. Halvershiem. They used to operate an ice cream parlor out of their garage, renovated to look like a 1950s diner until their surviving child graduated with a doctorate. Then, they retired and established the Luana H. Foundation to fund small business owners, like their son Nate, owner of the _Burger Joint_ , also outfitted to look like it belongs in a past decade.

As he and the Halvershiems exchange pleasantries, Stiles finds his eye drawn to a missing persons poster tacked to the overflowing corkboard in the entryway.

“Excuse me,” he murmurs, aware that he just interrupted Mr. Halvershiem. Stiles pulls the flyer down, staring at the picture.

The face is thin, beginning to sprout a little more than peach fuzz, but those eyes, that nose. Those teeth. It’s Miguel. Except Miguel’s real name is Derek. Derek Hale. And now Stiles knows why the boy looks so familiar.

Three years ago, when his father was seeking reelection, there was a huge fire outside of town. An abandoned house set ablaze by a group of arsonists. It wasn’t until weeks later that a secret basement was discovered, and with it, ten people, all dead. All one family. The Hales.

Stiles was in Atlanta, serving on the force there while he waited for an opening in Beacon County.

He got it when Michael Lahey beat his dad in votes and fired nearly every veteran of the force.

A newbie in town was assigned the arson case and occasionally Stiles would deal with Deputy Parrish shoving this paper under his nose for a final proof before he sent it out.

Stiles intends to find out what Derek’s involvement with the arson-and-murder case is.

Starting with Derek himself.

~ * ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end of the worms! Finally. Oh, just for a fun tidbit, this story was called "The One with Worms" for the longest time because that's how the idea spawned--full-shift wolves with worms.


	9. Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you think I'm missing any tags, please let me know.

~ * ~

Derek wakes up when the door to Scott’s office opens and the vet pokes his head in.

“Oh good, you’re up. Listen, Stiles is back, and Deaton and the Sheriff are here.”

Derek rubs at his eye and yawns widely. He doesn’t particularly care that Deaton or Isaac’s father are here, but Stiles means food that isn’t kibble, so he climbs to his feet and follows Scott back to the operating room.

Derek doesn’t make eye contact with anyone as he sidles up to Stiles and tries to sneak one of the cheesy burgers he can smell inside the ugly red and white bag stamped with a stupid name for a restaurant.

“No,” Scott says, grabbing his wrist. Derek growls. “You can’t have solid food until we can determine the extent of the worm infestation and I still have to look at the perforation in your bowels.”

Derek struggles free, aware that Scott let him go rather than successfully pulling away. “I told you, I don’t have any more worms in me. They’re all out.”

A strange man with a smooth head and a carefully tended goatee steps up to Derek, staring at him with barely concealed rage.

Derek frowns at him.

They are nearly the same height with Derek being a bare inch taller. The man, though, has a good eighty or ninety pounds on him. Derek takes a step back, fighting the instinct to bare his throat. From the corner of his eye, he sees Stiles’ hand fall to his belt where the taser sits unassuming. Missing is the pistol and the stun gun. Stiles must have left them at home. Small mercy. Derek grimaces. He can’t eat. He can’t run. He might as well go back to Scott’s office.

The man follows him, stopping when Derek does. His scent is unreadable despite the deep anger Derek sees in his face, and it makes him uneasy, like the unsettling feeling he had from the voice on the phone. This must be Deaton then.

Isaac’s father should be the red-faced man standing silently by Lydia and Allison’s chairs.

Deaton steps on the back of Derek’s heel, and the red-faced man snaps, “Back up.” His voice is rich, if a bit rough. Oddly, to Derek’s ears, he sounds like an older Stiles instead of an older Isaac. Hadn’t Scott said he was the sheriff though?

“Seriously, Alan,” the red-faced man continues, “back off. “You’re making the boy uncomfortable.”

“Am I?” Deaton raises an eyebrow. The naked hate on his face makes Derek narrow his eyes at him. He doesn’t know this man. He can’t have done anything to displease him so.

“Alan,” the sheriff says warningly. Deaton gives Derek a disdainful look before deliberately taking one giant step backward.

“Dad,” Stiles says, and Derek nods to himself. The red-faced man is the old sheriff. Not Isaac’s father who makes him sad. “Have you ever encountered any werewolves during your career?”

The old sheriff eyes Derek with an air of compassion, which startles Derek. “I did,” the man confirms. “I knew the Hales were Lycanthropes. I was tasked with keeping their secret when I became their emissary.” He reaches a hand out and Derek feels compelled to approach him. Surprisingly, he finds himself wrapped tight in a hug. He tenses, freezing.

This man, Stiles’ father, said he knows Derek’s family. Surely that means he’s a friend?

“What’s an emissary?” Stiles asks. “Dad?”

“An emissary acts as an adviser, usually to werewolf packs. Only the alpha and their second know who the emissary is.”

“John,” Lydia interrupts, “we should get Derek to a hospital now. He needs medical attention.”

Betrayed at the use of his real name, Derek looks to Allison. She doesn’t look up from the paper she is studying.

John squeezes Derek harder for a brief moment before pulling back entirely.

“He’s healing just fine,” John declares. He grabs the bag of food from Stiles and digs out a foil-wrapped sandwich. “Eat this,” he advises Derek. “It’ll do you a world of good.”

Derek practically inhales it before anyone can take it away. John smiles and hands him the second burger. Derek eats it slower—marginally—and eyes the bag until John lets him have it. Stiles makes a face when Derek crams as many of the seasoned spiral fries into his mouth as he can.

“He’ll need to be fed at least a thousand Calories every couple of hours or so until he can heal from a minor wound in seconds. A couple of days should be more than enough.”

Derek smirks at Lydia and eats another fistful of fries.

Scott sighs. “So, really, really a real werewolf?”

“Yes,” John says. “A child. Fifteen?”

“Sixteen in November,” Derek corrects. His birthday is coming up in about two weeks if the calendar stuck on the wall is anything to go by.

“So,” Scott says again, blanching oddly and wavering on his feet. “You’re fifteen and you’re definitely the wolf Stiles was calling Miguel.”

“I am,” Derek confirms.

“So, I performed veterinary duties on a kid.” Scott breaks out in a panicked sweat and stumbles to the bathroom where Derek can hear him being sick in the sink.

Stiles slinks to a chair and sits, folding his hands in his lap. “So, Dad. Any chance you wanna explain how you know this missing child?” He snatches the paper from Allison and shakes it at his dad. Derek stares at his own thirteen-year old face. Next to it, almost in sharp relief is a picture that looks remarkably like what he does now (except his face is thinner, more angular because of the starvation). So that’s how they knew his name. Allison didn’t tell them after all.

John sighs. “I already told you, I was the Hale emissary. That means if Talia Hale needed advice on anything, she’d come to me. I was more of a mediator than a magical dispenser though.”

“Whoa, hold up,” Stiles interrupts. “There’s magic?”

Derek grimaces and shoves the empty bag at John. He hates magic almost as much as he hates vets. Magic is strange people using the sparks inside themselves to hurt him in the hopes of winning _her_ favor.

It’s a satisfying sound that the door to the office makes when he slams it.

~ * ~

Stiles takes the bag from his father’s slack fingers. “So,” he says into the awkward silence. Faintly, he can hear Scott rinsing out his mouth. “Magic?”

“It’s actually a spark,” John says. “A certain something that enables the person with the spark to do things that appear to be magic.” His face shutters suddenly, the way it does when he is reminded of his late wife, Stiles’ mom. Indeed, he says, “Your mom was the Hale pack’s first emissary. When she died, Talia asked me if  I would continue her legacy.”

“And you did. Why? What did the Hales ever do for you or Mom?”

“When your mom was first diagnosed, Talia asked us if we wanted the bite. An alpha can turn humans into werewolves with their bites. They are the only ones able to do so.”

“It is a false promise given to incite loyalty if the bite takes and absolve guilt if it doesn’t,” Deaton spits. His eyes burn with a hatred Stiles has only seen the intensity of once before, back in Atlanta when he was on a domestic disturbance call. A husband was trying to kill his wife and the only way to stop him was to shoot him in the leg. Stiles still has nightmares about that fury-filled visage.

He reaches for his taser only for his hand to come up empty. Did Derek take it when he took the food? No, Dad was the one who took the bag originally. So…who?

Deaton raises his hand, pointing the missing weapon at Stiles, his finger on the trigger. “Looking for this?” He pivots and suddenly the taser is pointed at John’s chest. Stiles flinches. His dad has a pacemaker. The surge of electricity would definitely fuck with it and could possibly kill him.

Stiles clenches his fists. He wishes he’d brought his Beretta in, but he hadn’t wanted Miguel—Derek—getting a hold of it if he wrestled with him again. The kid is scrappy and Stiles wouldn’t bet on a fair fight. He just wishes he hadn’t also locked his stun gun in the safe in his Jeep too.

“They all make it sound so glamorous,” Deaton says. “Just a little bite and you’ll be better, stronger, more. What none of them say is that if you are a spark, you can’t be a shape-shifter. There isn’t enough room inside of you for that. They _never_ tell you that.”

“Sounds like you’re speaking from personal experience there, Alan,” Stiles says. Hostage training 102: act like you’re on their side to get them to drop their guard. First point on the list, Stiles already failed: don’t let them take your weapon.

“I am,” Deaton says. “My sister worked as an emissary for a traveling pack that came to visit the Hales. In doing so, they angered one of the neighboring packs and they attacked my sister as retaliation.” The taser wavers while Deaton blinks away tears. “They left her alive so that I could find her. I begged her alpha to save her.”

“It didn’t work,” Stiles guesses.

“No, it didn’t. It would never have. But he didn’t tell me that before he bit her. My sister died in minutes. I vowed revenge on the monsters that killed her, so I called in a favor.”

“Alan?” Scott says, and they all turn to where he is standing by the back entrance. His shirt is rucked up, soaked with water and twisted around his hands. He stares fearfully at his old boss, the man from whom he took over the clinic. Behind him, a gun, something small caliber, trained on the back of Scott’s head, is a woman Stiles never thought he’d see again: Kate Argent.

Last he saw her, she was being hauled away by his dad for slapping Lydia after she kissed Allison at their senior prom.

Time has been kind to Kate, which is unfair. Her hair is still honey-brown (probably with chemical assistance) and her face is still smooth (also probably because of extra heavy duty help). Conversely, Allison has crow’s-feet when she smiles and she’d found her first gray hair last year.

Personality-wise, niece and aunt could not be more dissimilar. Allison doesn’t have a mean bone in her body (that Stiles has seen) while Kate would actively rile people up because she found it funny to poke at their limits.

“Where’s the creature?” Kate asks, pulling a second gun—this one a .45 Desert Eagle—off her hip.

“He’s in the office,” Deaton says.

“You hear that, girls?” Kate smiles again, cold, sadistic. Behind her, nosing around the open door are two large wolves. They are both attached to short chains wound around Kate’s waist. “The boy’s in the office, no doubt hiding from us. Now, that just won’t do, will it? After all, it’s been years since you were all together. Why don’t you go say hello while I take care of these nice people?” Kate loosens the wolves’ leads and the larger of the two bounds toward the office door, snarling and growling.

Girls, Kate called them, and Stiles can’t see any equipment dangling down below, so he’s inclined to agree.

The wolf at the door butts her head against the wood and pulls back, eyes glowing distinctly red. The change of color reminds Stiles that Derek’s eyes were electric blue sometimes. He notices too, that the wolf that stayed by Kate’s heels has glowing yellow eyes.

“What do the colors of their eyes mean?” Stiles asks out loud.

“Red means an alpha,” his dad answers.

“Yellow is a beta,” Kate adds knowingly.

“And what about blue?”

“It means I killed someone,” Derek says. Stiles turns to stare at him, at his blazing blue eyes.

~ * ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Deaton is not a bad guy (just a man doing bad things).
> 
>  
> 
> Have the chapter early! I'm celebrating my birthday this year (and because I plan to be busy Wednesday). Thanks to all who read, kudos, bookmark, subscribe, and comment!


	10. Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning (skip to end notes).

~ * ~

Derek barely notices anyone else in the room because all he sees is _her_. _She’s_ here. _She’s_ going to kill him and nobody can stop her. He knows his eyes are still shifted. He can’t help it because he’s terrified, too scared to shake. He’s can’t even open his mouth again to tell Stiles that he’d ripped out the throat of a man who was trying to fuck him.

“It means he’s spilled the blood of an innocent, yes, killed a human.”

Stiles keeps his eyes on Derek’s, but Derek isn’t looking at him—he’s still watching _her_. At _her_ feet, a young wolf-shifter whines. The alpha growls lowly, and Derek feels a tug in his chest, a piece of home slotting into an ever-present hole. The alpha is too small to be Mom, so that means…“Laura?”

The alpha barks sharply, an affirmation. Derek finally tears his gaze from _her_ and looks to his sister, his alpha.

What happened to Mom to make Laura the alpha? Why does _she_ have his sister?

What about the other wolf-shifter? A young beta, younger than him he’d bet. Cora?

Laura has been fed well, and so has Cora, while he’s been starved. And he knows, in his bones, that they were stolen to be used as breeding stock.

Intelligent dogs that can understand human commands with minimal training and conditioning. Werewolves at the mercy and whim of hunters.

If Laura and Cora are prisoners like him, and Laura is the alpha now, what happened to the rest of his family? The hole in his chest makes a lot more sense now.

The rustle of John’s clothing is the only warning he gets before Derek is wrapped in another hug. Derek wasn’t aware that he was whimpering, trying to understand that just because he made it back doesn’t mean his family has been okay this whole time.

“I’m so sorry,” John murmurs into Derek’s hair. “We found so many bodies, everyone’s body except yours, Derek.” Derek smells the bitter salt of the man’s tears before they fall in his hair. “I lost jurisdiction quickly and then I lost the election. I never stopped looking for you, never stopped trying to bring you home.”

“My sisters?” Derek asks, looking at the alpha. The beta pads forward, nosing under the alpha’s throat. Both wolves are as dark as Derek when he’s shifted. Their scents are hard to pin down. The hunters must have used magic to shield them. Derek has had experience with that. _She_ likes to mask her scent and then hunt him down, give him a brief taste of freedom before _she_ punishes him for daring to think he could escape.

“We found corresponding bodies, but they were burned beyond recognition. And their teeth had been pulled. DNA was sent to the San Francisco lab but without a familial match, it returned no results.”

Lydia and Allison’s horrified gasps come close to vocalizing the sheer terror and sadness Derek feels knowing that _she_ killed his family, likely shortly after _she_ took him.

“I always knew there was something wrong with you,” Allison says, aiming a venomous glare at _her_. “I always wondered why my dad kept moving us around after my mom died, but just before we moved the last time, you approached me. The aunt I barely remembered and your first thought was not to gain my trust but to drive a wedge between my father and me. I found you despicable, especially after you tried to have my wife killed.” Allison points at Derek. “It would not surprise me one bit if we find out just how horribly you abused that boy. You can call him a murderer all you like, but I think we’re looking at a victim, at a _survivor_. If Sheriff Lahey doesn’t uphold your arrest, I’ll find someone who will.”

“My dad is still an the FBI agent,” Scott says. “I’ll call him. I’m sure they will be interested to hear all about how you transported minors, kidnapped minors, across state lines.”

“Did you forget that I have a gun and none of you, not even your deputy, have any weapons?” _She_ raises _her_ big gun and points it at Stiles’ chest. Despite the rabbit-fast beat of his heart, Stiles exudes calmness.

“Do you really think you can get away with killing all of us?” he asks. “Do you think you can pull that trigger before your throat is ripped out?” He steps closer to _her_ , to _her_ gun, and his smile is frightening. “Go ahead,” he says, “shoot me.”

“Fine by me.”

The report of the gun is loud, echoing inside the room and in Derek’s ears.

~ * ~

Stiles flinches, but he already knows Kate didn’t shoot him. He nods his thanks to Parrish, wondering how he knew to show up here. Doesn’t matter. Ask later. Secure the suspect.

Stiles strides forward and flips Kate onto her belly so that he can slip some flexi-cuffs onto her wrists. She remains surprisingly quiet, since Stiles gathered she liked hearing her own voice earlier. Her leg is bleeding from the flesh wound Parrish inflicted. She grunts in pain as Scott wraps it with gauze and medical tape.

“I thought for sure she’d take our cellphones,” Scott says quietly. “I saw her come in and texted Parrish.”

Scott’s hands twisted in his shirt, Stiles remembers. “Thanks, man. That was a good call.” Stiles grabs both of Kate’s weapons and then turns to Deaton. The former vet surrenders Stiles’ taser meekly. Stiles puts a pair of flexi-cuffs on him too.

Parrish is standing in front of Derek, staring at him, holding a familiar piece of paper. “It’s you,” he says in awe.

Derek looks sullenly at him. Stiles thinks it might be because the boy hasn’t recovered from the sound of the shot. He’d actually looked to be in pain when it discharged. In fact, Derek and the girls all are still acting like their ears still hurt.

More than human means more senses than humans, right?

Kate hisses as she’s hauled up by another deputy and marched out to the waiting sheriff’s car.

The alpha-wolf growls, pulling Stiles’ attention back to Derek and Parrish.

Parrish has his hand on Derek’s shoulder, a comforting gesture usually, but Derek’s face is stony. It is obvious that he does not want to be touched. Stiles thinks that the alpha is reacting to the boy’s anger.

“Hey, Jordan, step back, would you?” Parrish obeys, taking two small steps back. He keeps his hand on Derek, and Stiles feels his own irritation surging at the stupidity being showcased here. “Step away.” Stiles shoves between them, but unlike Parrish, he doesn’t touch Derek at all.

“Stiles, we need to report this,” Parrish says, excited.

“And you need to listen when I tell you to do something. You were about to have your face chewed off.”

Parrish glances nervously at the alpha. “I thought that was just a large dog.”

Stiles stifles his snort. In what world is a dog _that_ large?

“That’s my sister,” Derek says quietly. “Her name is Laura.”

“Sister?” Parrish squawks. “Derek, buddy.”

Derek glares at him. “No. Don’t tell me they died with the rest of my family.”

The alpha whines, pawing at his leg. It reminds Stiles of how Derek acted when he was all-wolf. It also gives him an idea.

“Hey, Dad, is there any way to keep a werewolf in its full-shift?”

“Delta,” Derek corrects. “The full-shift into a wolf is called the delta shift.”

“Any number of things could be keeping either of them from shifting,” John says before Stiles can reword his question. “Usually, it’s something administered, like poison or electricity.” He stoops next to the unattended beta and digs his fingers into her collar. He tears away a thin strip of leather and tosses it toward a corner, Stiles notes the splatter of blood and yellow petals.

The alpha, Laura, Stiles sees, has a similar band around her throat. Derek removes it for her, grunting in pain as the flowers make contact with his hands.

Almost as soon as the band is gone, the alpha curls in on itself and Stiles stares mesmerized as ebony fur changes into pink and dirty skin. A woman stands where once a wolf was, naked. Her stomach is smooth and her breasts large and Stiles snaps his gaze away sharply, aware that this is a person not an object to examine, no matter how amazing her transformation had been.

“Laura!” Derek embraces the woman tightly, nuzzling at her throat. He pulls back and says, “Cora,” to the beta that is no longer a mid-sized wolf but instead another naked young woman.

“I have spare clothes,” Scott offers, ducking into his office before anyone does anything.

The beta joins the alpha and Derek in their hug. Stiles can see the familial resemblance between them, and it makes him mad all over again that these children had their home burned down around them and were stolen away when they survived. Derek had been abducted earlier according to his missing flyer but if anything he looks worse off than his sisters.

“Here you go.” Scott returns and thrusts folded scrubs at the women (although, Stiles wonders, just how old are they if Derek is only fifteen). “You can use my office or the bathroom to change.”

The alpha heads for the office, the beta and Derek on her heels.

Stiles waits until the door is closed before he marches over to Deaton, who has been seated in a chair dragged away from the row by one of the others.

“What the hell?” Stiles demands. Deaton shrugs, indifferent.

“My sister was killed by a monster like them. I did what I had to. If your father had been killed, you’d understand.”

“No I wouldn’t,” Stiles says coldly. “Even if my father had been murdered by a werewolf, I still know that the actions of one do not indicate the actions of all.”

“How many?” Scott asks quietly, a dawning sense of terrified understanding on his face. “Alan, how many packs did you sentence to death?”

“At least five packs used to be in this area,” John says. “The Hales, the Smits, the Dauers, the Amoses, and the Tellers. Of those packs, the only survivors are these three Hale children.” John sighs and rubs a hand over his face. “I was personally called out by each and every one of those packs’ emissaries to investigate. What I found in each case was that a particular hunter clan had targeted each pack.”

“How many people died because of you, Alan?” Scott asks again. “How many innocents killed because you wanted revenge for your sister?”

Deaton doesn’t say anything. Stiles has had enough. Yes the man’s sister was probably killed by a werewolf (he’ll have to investigate that later) but that doesn’t mean all werewolves killed her. In fact, if the other packs were like the Hales, then a majority of them would have been families with children.

Jesus. Three years ago there was a mass extinction and the cause of it is refusing to see his error.

“Stand up,” Stiles commands Deaton.

Unsurprisingly, the man doesn’t obey.

“Stand up now. You are under arrest for facilitating the murders of the Hales, Smits, Dauers, Amoses, and Tellers.”

“And what of the beasts who murdered my sister?” Deaton sneers. “Are you going to arrest them as well?”

“Who? The Hales?” Deaton nods. “No. I’m not arresting them. They didn’t have anything to do with your sister’s death.”

“How do you know?”

“Because they are children, victims of your agenda. Now, stand up. If you don’t cooperate, I’m going to add resisting arrest to your charges.”

Finally, Deaton does stand, if a bit awkwardly from the way his hands are still restrained. Stiles shoves him into Parrish’s waiting arms.

This day just cannot get any worse.

~ * ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: In the first paragraph, Derek mentions an associate of Kate attacking him with the intention of raping him. Derek killed him to protect himself.
> 
> Haven't had time to really look it over. I'll do that soon. In the mean time, if you think I've missed tagging something, let me know. Thanks! And! A Post! On Wednesday! I'm so proud of myself (jk). Enjoy!


	11. Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning in end notes.

~ * ~

Derek sits on the couch, watching as his sisters try to figure out the armholes on the light blue scrubs Scott-the-vet gave them. It worries him that they may have spent more time as wolves than humans (but at the same time he feels a little more grateful that their bodies wouldn’t have been readily available for men like the one he killed to touch them. Especially, since Laura is an intimidating size and despite the wolfsbane collars, both his sisters still had their claws and teeth.

Outside the office, Derek overhears Deaton confess to calling in the hunters. He strains to listen over the rising pounding of his own heart, angered that this man had Derek’s family put to death because he did not know nor care to find out which wolf had killed his sister.

Derek is glad when Stiles arrests the bastard. By then, Laura and Cora are fully dressed.

“We thought you were dead,” Laura growls, voice unsteady, unused to being human.

“I’m sorry,” Derek says. The day _she_ had taken him, he had gone to the city park to look for their Uncle Peter, who was feuding with their mother. Peter hadn’t been there—Derek can only assume he returned home and was killed in the fire. “I shouldn’t have let myself be taken.”

When he couldn’t find Peter, he had wandered around, trying to catch his scent. Instead, he’d walked into a maze of emitters—sound beacons used to funnel wolves into traps—that _she_ had left behind. And like a baby, Derek had fallen into it, quickly becoming disorientated and overwhelmed before _she’d_ arrived to shoot him with a strain of wolfsbane he did not recognize. When he woke up again, they were already in the basement of the farmhouse in New York.

“Kate is a hunter,” Cora says quietly. She sits next to Derek and grabs his hand. “Do you know why she did the things she did? Why she took you? Why she didn’t kill Laura or me?”

When Derek doesn’t answer, she continues, “You were bait. The hunters used your abduction to drive the family closer so that they could kill all of us at the same time.”

 Derek twists his hand in Cora’s so that he can hold her hand now. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “It’s all my fault. I—” he can’t say anything else or he’ll start crying. It can’t be real that his family, aside from his sisters, is dead, that they’ve been dead this whole time. He’d thought the pain and numbness of his family’s loss had simply been distance—muted because he was drugged and beaten and tortured, not because they were gone.

But why did the hunters refuse to kill the three of them? He knows his sisters were likely stolen to be bred. But, what purpose could he have served the hunters?

The man he killed. The man who wanted to fuck him even though _she_ hadn’t had him fixed yet. He wouldn’t have borne children, but he could still provide some carnal pleasure. Derek is doubly glad then that he has torn the man’s throat out.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Laura says. “None of us did. It’s all on that bitch and that asshole that called her in.”

“Why does he hate all werewolves?” Cora asks. “Why does he want us dead?”

“He’s seeking revenge for his sister,” Derek explains. He thinks that the wolfsbane in their bindings must have limited their hearing in some manner since Deaton had spoken no less than twice about his motives for contacting the hunters. “She was killed by a werewolf and her alpha couldn’t turn her.”

“And he condemned our whole family to death for that?” Cora asks.

Laura clenches her fists. “If I didn’t think I’d be stopped, I would rip his throat out right  now.”

“The humans arrested him,” Derek points out. “They won’t let him get away with this.”

“Being arrested and actually stranding trial are two different things. How can they prove he had anything to do with the murders? There were no bodies left to recover when all was said and done.”

“He admitted to calling the hunters. Isn’t that enough?”

Laura shakes her head. “They may be able to arrest him, but without enough physical evidence, he’ll likely walk free.” She slams a fist into the wall, and Derek ducks over Cora as plaster rains down on them. “He gets to walk away while we’re left to pick up the pieces of our fractured lives. And there is nothing we can do about it.” Laura hits the wall harder. Derek is surprised that despite the noise, none of the adults have come to check on them yet.

“Why can’t we sue him?” Cora asks almost timidly. “Even if he can’t go to jail because of what he did, why can’t we still hold him responsible?”

“If they can’t prove he orchestrated our family’s murder and the murder of the packs around our territory, then no lawyer would even attempt to sue him for those reasons.”

“You can definitely try,” Stiles says, startling them. “I’ll help you.”

~ * ~

The Hale children stare at him with blank expressions. It’s creepy. Stiles waits for one of them to move, to tell him either thanks or no thanks.

Derek is the first to look away, and Stiles is surprised to note that he looks relieved.

“Do you have any family that wasn’t…?” Non sequitur, Stiles thinks.

The alpha, Laura, shows her red eyes to him. “They all were killed,” she says shortly. “Besides, I’m over eighteen.”

“Yeah?” She does look it. “By how much?”

Laura blinks and the red fades away.

Quietly, she hisses at Derek and they confer quickly, almost too low for Stiles to hear at all.

“I’m twenty-five,” she declares. Immediately, Derek and the yellow-eyed beta (…Cora?) hit their faces with their open palms.

“You’re almost three years older than me,” Derek grumbles from behind his hand. “That makes you eighteen right now.”

Laura shoots him a look of fury. Stiles watches the exchange silently. Derek huffs and crosses his arms but also bows his head and bares his throat.

“Why do you want to give a false age?” Stiles asks after Laura presses a hand to Derek’s neck. “Does it have something to do with the hunters?”

Laura shrugs. “People listen better the older you are. Would you pay more attention to what a teen says or an adult?”

“I’m a deputy,” Stiles replies, tapping where he normally clips his badge, forgetting that he doesn’t actually have it on him right now. “I’m supposed to listen to everyone equally.”

“But do you?” Laura presses.

Unbidden, guiltily, Stiles recalls how he interacted with Derek earlier. Laura cocks her head, inhaling pointedly.

Stiles ignores her, turning to Derek. He holds out his hand and Derek just stares at it. “I am sorry,” Stiles says as sincerely as he can. Derek’s nostrils flare as he hesitates a moment longer before taking Stiles’ hand. He squeezes briefly and lets go. It’s as much forgiveness as Stiles can expect and more than he thought he would get.

Laura studies them with an odd expression, two parts suspicion, one part distrust, and one part unreadable. “No,” is all she says. Derek sets his jaw and nods resolutely.

Stiles knows he missed a very important piece of the conversation but he doesn’t know what it was. He vows to ask them about it later. Right now, he needs to take them to the Sheriff’s Station so that they can work on closing out this case.

He eyes Derek’s narrow frame, taking in the thin arms and bony wrists hanging out of the sleeves of his borrowed t-shirt. Kate Argent is going to Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital to get her leg patched from Parrish’s very definite nonlethal wounding.

Unfortunately, if Derek stays human, he should probably go to the hospital too. In fact, Stiles is surprised that Parrish hasn’t suggested it yet.

“Hey, buddy,” Stiles says, and Derek looks up. “Do you feel up to going to the hospital now?” Since they, in the form of at least Deaton and Kate Argent, have been apprehended.

Derek shakes his head.

“ _She_ will be there,” he whispers, “and I don’t want to see _her_.”

“I don’t blame you, bud.” Honestly, Stiles can only guess at what Kate has done to the boy in the three years she had him, but he knows it wasn’t anything good. After all, Derek ran away from her and contracted worms, likely from eating infected wildlife. “But you might have to go just to make the deputies happy.”

Derek wrinkles his nose. “I don’t want to go,” he says, almost plaintively. “They won’t let me eat cheeseburgers.”

“No, I imagine not.” Stiles knows they’ll stick the poor boy on an IV at the least. Considering how underweight he is, he wouldn’t be a bit surprised if the doctors try to insert a feeding tube. “Unless you can gain about fifty pounds in the next fifteen minutes, I don’t think you have a choice.”

“I could eat a lot of cheeseburgers,” Derek says, haughty.

Stiles laughs at him. “Okay, one, I don’t have enough money to make that happen, and two, your stomach can’t handle that much food.”

Derek crosses his arms and blows a puff of air. Cora drapes herself over his shoulder and noses at the hinge of his jaw.

“Don’t be scared,” she says, and Stiles wonders how old she is. Derek is fifteen (almost sixteen) and Laura is eighteen. Cora looks at least a couple of years younger than Derek.

Derek sighs and lets his sister push him over until there is room for Laura on the couch.

“So we sue the bald guy,” Cora says.

“Deaton,” Derek adds.

 “What next? Where do we go? What do we do?”

“We stay together,” Laura answers. “We’re all that’s left. We can’t let anyone tear us apart.”

“It’s a lovely sentiment,” Stiles interjects, “but how are you going to prove that you can provide the care your siblings need?”

Laura growls low in her throat, and the cats and dogs awaiting procedures that require an overnight stay start making a racket. Derek pinches Laura and she stops growling. It takes a few minutes for the cacophony to die down.

“I’m the alpha,” Laura says into the blessed silence. “By definition I need to provide for my pack.”

“Swell. Now, do you have a house or an apartment? Somewhere to sleep and eat? How about a job? What resources do you have?”

Laura’s eyes go red again, but she stays silent this time.

Stiles sighs. “I _will_ help you. You can stay in my apartment with me while you establish yourself. I only have one spare bedroom though, so someone will have to sleep on the couch until we figure something out.”

“Your couch is ugly,” Derek says. “Why do you want to help us?” His eyes turn blue, as if to remind Stiles of the fact that this child has killed a person.

Stiles reaches out a hand to brush over Derek’s hair. “It’s that same part of me that saw you as a wolf and wanted to help you then too.”

The door opens, interrupting them, and Lydia pokes her head into the office. “It’s time to take Derek to the hospital. Besides, I’ sure the Sheriff’s Department will have some questions for the Hales, but they all should be examined. Who knows what Kate did to them.”

“What I’d like to know is why is Derek emaciated but the girls aren’t.”

“Breeding,” Laura answers. “Since males can’t get pregnant, there’s no reason to waste resources on them.”

“ _She_ liked me,” Derek says. “It’s the only reason I’m still alive. The bare minimum of Calories allotted enabled me to waste away while still surviving enough to respond to _her_ torture.”

“ _Her_ torture?” Stiles repeats. “Kate’s torture?” Derek flinches at her name. And, oh, Stiles gets it. She holds power over him in her name. By denoting her to a simple pronoun, Derek is not allowing the power of her name to affect him near as much as it otherwise would. These children will need psychiatric help.

“Did Allison offer to talk to you at all?” Stiles asks. “She’s a therapist or rather, a psychiatrist.”

“She said she specializes in juvenile trauma cases,” Derek says. “Can I think about it?”

“Of course. For now though, let’s get you to the hospital so that we can get you cleared.”

Derek stands up, relying heavily on his alpha. It’s obvious that he’s weaker than he should be, and Stiles thinks that might be the effects of the starvation kicking in again. He must be running out of energy. As far as he knows, Derek has eaten two burgers, two orders of curly fries, and some kibble. No wonder he’s stumbling.

“Okay, enough of that.” Stiles stops Laura and hefts Derek into his harms, the boy’s legs over one arm and his head and shoulders cradled in the other.

As a group, they move through the clinic, heading for the front door, which Cora opens without prompting. Stiles sets Derek in the backseat, pulling the blanket around the boy. His sisters climb in with him, and Stiles swears he sees their veins stand out, black and unnatural, as they rearrange their brother into a more comfortable position.

Stiles gets behind the wheel and pulls out of the lot. He notices Parrish’s car following them, providing an escort. Good. Maybe they’ll get to the hospital faster.

~ * ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Reference to rape/attempted rape.
> 
> If I'm missing something from the tags, please let me know. Thanks.


	12. Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Description of inserting an IV line. Starts with the paragraph "Melissa swabs his inner left elbow..." and ends with "...from a silver pole..."

~ * ~

Everything is a blur—sight, sound, and smell. It makes Derek upset, disorientated, and he whines softly. He can feel his sisters nearby but he can’t hear their heartbeats or smell their scent.

If he had to guess at what’s happened to him, he’d have to say that his body is shutting down due to his expounded energy compared to his lack of Calorie intake. It’s even too taxing for him to raise his voice and ask where he is.

So he drifts, scared, mostly alone, and unable to discern anything aside from a few jumbled words in the mess of everything.

Eventually, though, his vision clears and his ears pop and he can smell properly again. Well, not really. Everything seems affected, like he can’t quite use his senses.

He’s definitely at the hospital though, the off-white walls and uncomfortable looking furniture soaked through with a mix of muted emotions ranging from joy to fear are a giveaway.

The room is empty of people, and there is a privacy curtain pulled around a second bed. Two mauve-patterned armless chairs have been dragged next to his bed and they smell of his sisters and the pungent dad-ness of John.

They must have just left if he can still smell them this clearly.

Derek feels strong enough to sit up, a marked difference from what he recalls of the urgent rush from earlier—which is not much at all really. The crook of his left elbow itches, and he scratches at it absently as he swings his legs off the bed, feet impacting the cold tiles. He runs a hand over his arm where gooseflesh has sprung.

There is a machine attached to him by a series of sticky patches on his chest and trailing wires. It reminds him of the taser, and before that the battery the hunters liked to use on him. His heartbeat ratchets up, and the machine starts beeping frantically at him. It sounds like a countdown. He scrapes the patches off, wincing at the sticky residue that clings to his skin, but it has the desired effect of making the machine stop beeping.

Derek heaves a sigh of relief that he immediately chokes on when the machine lets out a sustained squawk.

The noise hurts his ears, so he scrambles away from it, ducking through the first door he finds. He ends up in a bathroom as tiny as the one from the vet clinic, only much cleaner and more well-lit when he flips the switch. He can still hear the machine in here, so he heads for the other door.

It opens before he can grab the handle, and a female nurse, long dark curls streaked with gray and white tied back in a ponytail, dark purple scrubs, sensible shoes, light perfume, and dark smudges under her eyes, strides in forcing him backward. With her comes a brief, overwhelming sense of sound and smells before she shuts the door. Derek tries to not recoil at the intensity of it all.

“And just where do you think you’re going, mister?” she demands, a no-nonsense tone.

Derek shrugs. Better than flinching at her demeanor, he thinks. “Away from the noise?”

“That noise will stop once you’re hooked up again,” the nurse says, kinder. “Come on, it won’t bite you.”

“Will it shock me?”

A looks of surprise flits over her face and her scent spikes with fear and anger. “No, it won’t,” she assures him gently.

Derek eyes her with suspicion. Her heartbeat is stead, but she’s twitching like she’s lying. “Promise?” he asks. The nurse smiles.

“I promise.” At least she seems more amused than anything right now, so Derek allows her to press him back onto the bed and reattach the sticky pads.

While she leans over him, he grabs her nametag and tugs it free. It’s magnetic, and he plays with it, noting that her name is Melissa. When she’s done with the machine, she takes her tag back and slips it into her pocket.

“Comfortable?”

Derek nods because a little lie like that means she will leave him alone again sooner.

No such luck.

She pins him with a steady gaze as if she knows he’s lying. He scents the air subtly, unsure about how he feels when it turns out she’s just a human.

“It’s time for another feeding.”

Derek looks at her hopefully. He wants more of the food Stiles got him. It takes better than the road kill and dog food. Melissa-the-nurse goes to the exit door and returns wheeling a cart covered in clear bags, some filled with liquid, others with supplies, and sharp needles.

The machine attached to him gives away his spike of fear.

Melissa smiles warmly, her off-center lips reminding him strongly of Scott-the-vet.

“You’re a very brave boy, Derek,” Melissa tells him. “Now, this will hurt a little because I need to reinsert your IV line. This will provide you with necessary fluids. I’m sure you’ve realized that you are dehydrated.”

Derek was aware that he was lacking fluids, yes, but he’d chalked it up to traveling into California where there were less backyard pools or outdoor spigots. He knew, as a wolf, he would replenish much of his lost fluids by eating things with liquid in them. He’d spent a few hours during his first night away from the hunters, teaching himself how to puncture a half-full bottle of soda pop so that it looked like it had burst on the side of the road. California was a little more conscientious with their littering and that source had dried up almost as fast as the outdoor water.

He doesn’t want to tell her any of this, not sure if she would take it as badly as Allison had earlier. After all, she’s a nurse.

Melissa swabs his inner left elbow with an alcohol wipe and then deftly inserts a needle into his flesh. She wriggles it briefly, forcing the metal in farther, and Derek grits his teeth at the pinch of pain.

He concentrates on not healing while Melissa works to detach the needle, leaving a plastic piece embedded in his vein. When she depresses the plunger to flush the tubing, he looks away, determined not to break. He’s suffered worse than a bit of fluid in his hand. Melissa does a few more things, including taping the contraption to his skin, and then steps back to hang one of the clear bags of liquid from a silver pole he hadn’t noticed earlier.

“All done,” she says smiling at him. It hasn’t even been five minutes. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

“No,” he agrees. He wonders if the IV is the reason he’s had more strength. He can feel it inside him when the liquid from the bag goes into his arm. It’s cool, wet, and foreign and he can taste it in the back of his throat. It takes all of his self-control not to rip it out.

Melissa notices his concentration and laughs softly. “I know it doesn’t feel the greatest but it’s really helping you.”

“A cheeseburger would help more,” Derek mutters. Melissa laughs again.

“I’m sure you think that. Truth is, while it’s high in Calories, most of those Calories come from fat and you don’t need that. What you need is proteins and carbohydrates—something that’ll stick to your bones while filling your belly.”

“Can I at least have one cheeseburger?”

The door opens before Melissa can answer, and Stiles steps in carrying a plastic bag. While the door is open again, Derek focuses on the hustle and bustle of the hospital, disappointed when he can’t pick his sisters out of the busyness.

As soon as the door swings shut behind Stiles, the noise, the smells, everything stops abruptly, like it was snuffed out.

Derek stares wide-eyed at both Stiles and Melissa, worried that it’s only now occurred to him that this is a trap. They’re going to give him back to the hunters because he won’t ever hear them coming. In fact, that’s probably where Laura and Cora are right now.

That whole showdown at the vet clinic, Stiles’ declaration, it was all a ruse.

The only person here he can trust is Allison. She’s smelled strongly of anger when she was accusing _her_ of trying to kill her mate. She also hasn’t betrayed him yet. Maybe he can trust Lydia too? And then he remembers Lydia’s insistence that he come to the hospital.

Everyone, except Allison with her doctor-patient privilege, is working to keep him exposed, ready for the hunters. Especially Stiles. Derek growls at him, allowing the hole in his arm to heal, dislodging Melissa’s IV.

The nurse swears and scrambles to stop the drip while Derek launches himself at Stiles.

This time it doesn’t matter that he’s smaller than Stiles or that he only weighs fifty pounds, he has healed enough that the force behind his punch lays Stiles flat.

Probably as a reflex, Stiles lets go of his bag, and it spills sideways. Derek pauses, sniffing. Food! He jumps on the bag and scrambles to the bathroom, twisting the handle sharply so that it breaks, leaving Stiles and Melissa no way to get at him.

Inside the pilfered bag is a white Styrofoam box, but instead of cheeseburgers and curly fries, this is meat loaf with gravy and peas and mashed potatoes. Everything is all jumbled together from when it fell, but Derek doesn’t care. He scarfs it down, using his fingers to shovel it into his mouth. When he’s done, he licks the box clean and then dives back into the bag.

A smaller box yields an upside down brownie smushed into melting vanilla ice cream. Derek eats it too. Then, he drinks from the sink and studies his reflection.

Someone changed him from Stiles’ clothes into a set of scrubs like his sisters. His feet are still bare and dirty.

A shower would be nice, he decides. There is a stall with a showerhead and a railing and the curtain that he slides open is patterned with large, oddly colored plumeria flowers. Everything smells of bleach, and underneath that, like mildew and ammonia. Derek doesn’t care. It’s a shower and he needs one.

He blasts the hot water and then stands under the spray. Bliss.

~ * ~

Stiles stares at the bathroom door, ruefully rubbing at his aching shoulder.

Whatever Derek did to the door, it’s not opening anytime soon. It hadn’t even budged when he rammed his shoulder into it.

Melissa returns from talking to security and hands him a cold pack. She doesn’t say anything, for which Stiles is grateful. She is justified in an I-told-you-so since she definitely told him not to break her solid door. Pointing out that Derek had already broken it had earned him a nice smack to the back of his head.

“I think we should remove the dampeners,” Stiles suggests. “That’s probably why he freaked out in the first place.”

“Do you know how difficult it is to treat the supernatural without those dampeners in place?” Melissa demands. “I’ve had werewolves in here who could hear surgeries six floors away and were to agitated for me to treat them. The dampeners stay on.”

“And what about Derek’s well-being?” Stiles glares at her. (It’s better than demanding (again) why neither she nor his father revealed the existence of supernatural creatures to him.) “Obviously, Kate Argent did something horrible to him, but we don’t know if she used sensory deprivation in addition to the sustenance deprivation.” He waits for her to shrug before adding, “He’s also just been told that most of his family died three years ago.”

“Who told him that?”

“Who else? Parrish. I don’t know what he was thinking, but I know Derek hasn’t had time to process it. We’ve separated him from his sisters, his only living relatives, and we’re disallowing him from using his senses to his advantage. We’re no better than Kate Argent right now.”

Melissa looks conflicted. “Do you sincerely believe that we need to remove the dampeners for Derek Hale’s mental well-being?”

Stiles nods. He truly thinks that Derek only attacked because he felt threatened when he realized they were doing something to his senses.

“I’ll talk to the director and see about getting the dampeners lifted.”

“And the bathroom door?” Stiles asks.

The door to the hallway opens and in steps the fire chief, another graduate of the class of ’99. A narrow-shouldered woman who Stiles knows can bench press nearly twice her weight (as she proves at the annual Firefighters versus Police games every year). Rebecca “Harley” Harlowe, former crush (hey, Stiles was young, he had a crush on nearly every classmate of his growing up—the exception being Scott).

She is standing in her black Beacon Hills FD t-shirt and holding a long-handled axe.

“Stilinski,” she greets wearily.

“Harley. Good to see you.”

“Would be better if I hadn’t had to be called out.” She points at the bathroom door. “He’s behind there?”

“Yep.”

“Can he hear me?”

Stiles looks to Melissa. She shakes her head and Harley lets out a long sigh.

“You got your taser ready?”

It’s clipped to Stiles’ belt again. He pulls it free and preps it.

“On three.” Harley hefts her axe while Stiles aims at the door. “One.”

Stiles swallows hard. He hopes Derek doesn’t attack again.

“Two.”

He really doesn’t want to hurt the boy more. He’s gone through so much in the last three years.

“Three.”

Harley swings her axe.

~ * ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, fair warning: this is the last update I can manage for at least a month. I have some other projects I need to work on, and I want to get the next chapter of Broken & Beautiful up before the end of September (if I can manage it). I'm...not okay but I'm not bad. I don't want to worry anyone and I'm sorry if this feels like whining.
> 
> As always, thanks for reading, bookmarking, leaving kudos, and subscribing.
> 
> Any tags you think I missed, let me know.
> 
> Cross-posted at [my Tumblr](https://1989dreamer.tumblr.com).


	13. Eleven

~ * ~

Derek finds the towels under the sink and wraps three of them around his body. They are smaller than the one Stiles had but nicer. White and fluffy and warm.

Then, just as he is deciding if he wants to dress again in the scrubs or seek out other clothing options, the door breaks inward with a muted thud.

Derek stares at the woman standing there, holding an ax. She looks crazy, hair pulled into a tight bun on top of her head, quivering with her heaving breaths. Her t-shirt declares her a member of the Beacon Hills Fire Department but that is of little comfort to him as she readjusts her grip on the handle. Her eyes won’t stay still, betraying her intentions.

He growls at her, flashing his eyes and letting his fangs poke out.

Her face blanks, and she moves when Stiles jerks her back. Derek flinches away from the taser in Stiles’ hand.

“Hey, you doing okay in here, bud?”

Stiles’ eyes keep shifting around the bathroom, like he thinks Derek did more than take a shower. The taser never wavers from pointing at Derek’s belly button, but he notices that even though it’s prepped, Stiles’ finger is nowhere near the trigger.

It doesn’t feel like he’s in danger any more, so Derek says, “I’m still hungry. Also, I want my sisters.”

“They’re just outside talking to some deputies,” Stiles says. His heart blips a little, and Derek tenses before he hears the nurse Melissa speak.

“Try convincing him to finish the IV, Stiles.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “If just a little felt good,” he says, “imagine what the whole bag will do.”

Derek looks down at his hands. He feels strong—stronger than he has in a long while. Is that really because of the liquid in the bag?

“Hey, if you don’t want it, we won’t make you take it. It’s entirely up to you.”

A choice? It’s like Stiles promising not to hurt him—and look how well that had gone. So maybe Derek doesn’t really have a choice. Illusion of choice is more likely.

“The bag is fine.” After all, if the liquid in the bag is truly helping him, he’ll only get stronger, and then he can fight all of them and escape. Ax and taser included.

“Well good.” Stiles seems flummoxed, as if he expected Derek to put up a fight. “That’s good. We should get you set up then.” He frowns. “You might want to get dressed again.”

Derek frowns right back at him. Stiles flushes angrily and grabs the woman’s arm to pull her out to the room with him. Once they’re gone, Derek sheds the towel and pulls on the scrub bottoms. He gets stuck in the scrub top and uses a claw to slit it open. He growls at it for good measure before he follows Stiles out of the bathroom.

Melissa points at the bed, and Derek climbs onto it, settling with his ankles crossed, hands intertwined and resting on his bare stomach. Stiles glares at him before looking away quickly.

Derek grins at him, sticking one arm out so that Melissa can insert a fresh needle and reattach the bag of liquid. He concentrates on not healing so that the liquid can actually enter his system.

“Are you a hunter?” he asks Melissa. He doesn’t think so since she doesn’t have the underlying smell of gun oil or wolfsbane.

She shakes her head, heartbeat steady. “I was Claudia’s nurse.” She shoots a look at Stiles, but he’s too busy arguing with the woman about who is going to pay for the destroyed door.

So far, the woman is winning.

“Claudia was Stiles’ mom.”

“She died,” Derek says. He remembers John saying he took over his wife’s emissary duties.

“Yes, she did. Before she passed, she entrusted her journals to me until such a time that your mother had selected her new emissary. I don’t know if I was supposed to read them or not, but I did. I learned of your family’s existence and how to care for any of you through those journals. My boss is actually the former emissary of one of the packs that lived in the surrounding territories. He’s the one who equipped our dampeners.”

“Smell and hearing,” Derek says. He touches his ears.

“Both senses are easily overwhelmed. The dampeners filter out most of it so that any supernatural creatures can be treated in relative comfort. I’ll speak to the director and get the dampeners lowered.”

The limitations placed on him are for his own good? Derek hadn’t liked the roar of sound or the pungent odor of so many people’s illness. Even the smell in the room is limited. It’s only if someone is next to him, like Melissa is now, that he can smell their emotions and intentions.

“No,” Derek decides. “The dampeners can stay. But,” he adds, “I want my sisters.”

“That can be arranged. For now, I just want you to focus on getting better.”

The growing itch under Derek’s skin eases only when Stiles stops arguing with the woman and comes to sit by the bed. It’s worrisome that Stiles shows a bit of kindness to him and he stops trying to fight him. When _she_ had him, he never made the mistake of thinking she could be good for him. He needs to steel himself against Stiles.

“Just sleep,” Stiles says, “your sisters will be here in a few minutes.” Another promise.

But, it’s a good promise. Stiles’ heartbeat stays steady. His scent is soothing, and Derek finds himself drifting off as Melissa removes the IV line.

~ * ~

Stiles tries not to feel so creepy watching Derek sleep. Melissa assures him that the intake of nutrients and Calories is on schedule, even with Derek’s little temper tantrum that saw Stiles handing over a hundred bucks to Melissa so she could pass it along to the billing department. Stiles still thinks Harley should have covered at least half of it, but she’d dodged it, saying, “You called _me_ ,” and waltzing out the door to meet her fiancée for drinks.

Stiles had tried to convince her to keep the fact that Derek is a werewolf quiet, and she’d fixed him with an unimpressed glare. Apparently, her fiancée came from a Canadian pack of werewolves and they were just waiting on her citizenship papers before they got married.

Melissa taps Stiles shoulder. “Derek will be ready for the next IV bag when he wakes up again.” He nods his understanding.

After a few more minutes, Stiles can’t convince himself that he isn’t creepy any longer, and he points at the door. Melissa nods and follows him, dimming the lights behind them.

Once outside the room, Stiles sighs.

“Is there any evidence on him of what he went through?”

Melissa shakes her head, and Stiles refrains from punching the wall at the somewhat expected answer. “Even a werewolf as emaciated as Derek still heals,” she says. “If you want to know what happened to that boy, you’ll either have to talk to his tormenters or get him to tell you.” She checks her watch. “I need to finish my rounds before I clock out.”

“Thanks, Melissa,” he says belatedly when she’s already halfway down the hallway. She still waves.

Stiles turns to the little window beside the door, peering into the darkened room.

He needs information to prove without a doubt that Derek was tortured. The starvation thing is a major indicator, but he’ll need more to bring charges against Kate Argent and her hunters.

Derek does not appear inclined to share his experiences of the past three years, and Stiles has a strong feeling that Kate Argent will be even less forthcoming about her actions.

Stiles wants to bash his head against the wall. The only thing stopping him is the fact that it wouldn’t help in the slightest. He sighs and runs his fingers through his hair, gripping the strands and pulling harshly. He still needs to give his own statement about what happened at the vet clinic too.

A quick peek at his watch makes him curse. The time is a few minutes past 8:00. With any luck this night will just end and Stiles can go home and sleep.

Home.

Where he tasered Derek and although he cleaned a bit, there is still shit and bile all over his bathroom. He is really not in the mood to scrub and sanitize anything tonight. What he’d really like to do is take a hot shower and fall into his bed.

His dad has a spare room. Stiles can crash at his place and then clean his house tomorrow. All he has to do is get his pillow, a change of clothes, his uniform and service weapon, and some toiletries.

He has to wonder where the Hales will stay once Derek is discharged. Yes, Laura is eighteen, but as established, they have nowhere to go. As far as Stiles knows, they don’t even have any clothes other than the scrubs borrowed from Scott and the hospital.

In all likelihood, one of the deputies will have to house them at least overnight. Stiles hopes that the sheriff won’t volunteer. Sheriff Lahey is a cold man with dead eyes and a bark like a charging rhinoceros. Stiles had swimming lessons back in the third grade when Sheriff Lahey used to be Coach Lahey. Something has always been off about that man.

It’s a worry for another day because Stiles’ phone is buzzing with a call from a number he doesn’t recognize.

“Stilinski.” Being a deputy means he answers his phone even if he’s suspicious.

“Stiles, it’s Erica.”

“Hello.” Stiles is curious as to why she’s calling him. He was under the impression that if she called it would be in a couple of days. Not the same day they had reconnected.

“So, I just wanted to know if you’d be willing to help me out with a project.”

“Kind of forward,” Stiles says, and Erica laughs.

“I suppose,” she agrees. “Look, I know things have changed since high school when we last saw each other. You’re a cop and I don’t have as many seizures as I used to.”

“Okay?” Stiles doesn’t understand. They’re all in their thirties—high school should be the furthest thing they all talk about—aside from Allison and Lydia who truly were high school sweethearts.

Erica sighs in his ear. “I run the only shelter in Beacon Hills. Since I’m alone, I don’t have the resources to take in all three Hales indefinitely, but I can be a temporary home for them. My boyfriend is busy tonight—something with his job—so I don’t have the necessary help to set up for them tonight. Please, just say you’ll help me.”

“Erica, I’m tired and need a shower. Is there really no one else you can ask?”

“No.” Erica sounds small.

“Damn it,” Stiles mutters under his breath. “If you promise to feed me,” he says louder, already regretting the offer but knowing that he wouldn’t have said no anyway, “I’ll help you.”

Hell, he can bring Scott too, if Scott’s willing.

“Deal,” Erica says brightly. Stiles thinks he just got played. “I already made supper when my boyfriend told me he wasn’t coming home tonight.”

“You have enough for another mouth?”

Erica scoffs. “Boy, I make enough to feed an army. Have you seen my boyfriend? You think it’s a mistake that he’s that well-fed?”

“It would help if I knew who your boyfriend is.”

“Vernon Boyd,” Erica says, and Stiles can hear how in love she is.

“Vernon Boyd from Animal Control is your boyfriend?” He tries to say it mildly, but there is no mistaking the shock in his voice. He winces, expecting Erica to take offense.

Instead, she says, “I know, right? I mean, he’s him. He’s so kind and gentle and good, and I’m me.”

“Hey, now, you’re just as good as B—Vernon.”

Erica snorts. “You say that now, Stilinski. Little do you know, I’m the devil in disguise.” She laughs. “After the wonder-drug, my life completely changed. I was able to finally pursue my interests with minor worry about relapsing. I’ve actually been on this new drug for almost three years. Clinical trials are almost done and it goes to market in six months. Once that’s done, I’ll have to pay for my prescription like everyone else. Hence the pet supplies store.”

“And you run the shelter when you’re not at work?”

“I only work at the store when the shelter is empty. I’m kind of a spare employee—they don’t need me really—but my dad is friends with the owner so anytime I have some downtime from the shelter, they let me work.”

“Wow, that’s a pretty lucky deal.”

“Don’t I know it. So, you’ll definitely help me tonight? And you’re bringing a friend as well?”

“Yeah, if he’ll go for it. He’s had a rough day too.”

“Oh, hey, you could totally bring your new companion too!” Erica chirps. “I bet the kids would love him. Unless, he’s anti-social. Somethings dogs that go through abuse are a lot less willing to socialize, especially in large groups.”

“Uh,” Stiles says, grasping for an excuse, any excuse. “Uh, Miguel is at the vet’s overnight—he has worms and he needs surgery tomorrow and—”

“Stiles,” Erica interrupts.

“Yeah?”

“Stop lying to me.”

“I’m not lying,” Stiles protests but it sounds hollow to his own ears. “Fine. What do you think I’m lying about?”

“Everything. Starting with the fact that you actually have a dog.”

“You saw me buying things. _You_ helped me pick them out!”

“So? You could just be running a scam.”

Stiles doesn’t need this shit, much less from someone he hasn’t interacted with in over a decade. “Look, do you want my help or not? Keep insulting me and you can kiss it goodbye.”

“Fine,” Erica hurries to say, huffing out a breath that sound suspiciously like a sigh of relief, “I’m sorry. “Just, please don’t be mad at me.”

She hangs up before Stiles can ask her to clarify and he stares at his phone, wishing he could chuck it at the wall.

“Hey, kiddo.” His dad startles him when he claps him on the back. John has Laura, Cora, and one of Stiles’ coworkers, Deputy Haigh, with him. “Sheriff Lahey wants Derek’s statement tonight,” John explains. “Haigh is the _bona fide_ volunteer.”

Meaning that come hell or high water or a right to privacy, Sheriff Lahey is going to get that statement. Stiles fixes Haigh with a sour look. The man transferred in after Stiles did and almost immediately, the entire force decided they didn’t like him. Haigh is a giant butt munch. He brownnoses like nobody’s business and then turns in other deputies for minor slip-ups.

Parrish, his assigned partner, has suffered the most. Parrish is usually confined to desk duty with docked pay because of Haigh’s tattling (of mundane things like an extra bathroom break or missing office supplies), which Parrish claims Haigh uses to hide the rules he breaks. They have no evidence though, and Haigh is definitely the Sheriff’s favorite deputy.

“Okay, first of all, Sheriff Lahey can shove it tonight. The boy is resting right now. You won’t get any useful information from him. Secondly, you ask questions like a bulldozer: heavy-handed and rude. This is a child who has suffered abuse and requires a gentler hand than you are capable of providing.”

“And I suppose you think you’re the best person for the job?” Haigh sneers.

“Well, I am the one who’s taken those classes,” Stiles says.  During his time in Atlanta, he worked hostage negotiation and interrogation of child witnesses and victims, able to empathize and connect with his targets. Allowing Haigh at Derek makes his hackles rise.

His dad lays a hand on his shoulder, and Stiles subsides, adding, “But, I’m probably too close to the source.”

“That’s what the Sheriff thinks too,” Haigh says. “He wants your badge pending an investigation.”

“What? Why?”

“How is it that a trained officer is taken hostage?” Haigh’s smug smile makes Stiles’ insides twist. “Where was your service weapon?”

“I was off-duty,” Stiles protests. “Why would I be carrying then?”

“That’s something you’ll have to answer. Now, if you excuse me, I have an arson suspect to interrogate.”

“Now wait a minute!” John cries. Laura growls deep in her throat, her eyes flashing red. John puts a hand on her shoulder, like he did with Stiles. She shrugs him off. She is not so easily soothed.

“My brother was stolen before our house was burned down.”

“And how do you know he wasn’t working with the ‘kidnappers’?”

“Because I was thirteen,” Derek says. “Because Kate Argent drugged me and took me, and when I woke up, I was in New York.”

~ * ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [My Tumblr](https://1989dreamer.tumblr.com).


	14. Twelve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for a story-spoiler warning.

~ * ~

Derek woke up feeling much refreshed even though he is positive it has been less than half an hour before he resurfaces. Stiles is gone, but his scent hasn’t completely faded yet, even if it’s washed out by the dampeners. That means he recently moved, which is a comforting thought for some reason.

Melissa isn’t in the room either, so Derek takes the opportunity and opens the door only to hear the new deputy accusing him of burning his house down.

Stiles is the first to do anything after Derek speaks, and he shoves the new deputy out of Laura’s way. Derek braces himself, but his fifty-odd pounds can’t stand up to Laura’s hundred-twenty and they end up sprawled inside the room, tangled together. Laura’s elbow is in his side and her nose is against his throat. Derek is uncomfortable as all hell but he wouldn’t trade this moment right now for anything, not even when Cora adds her ninety pounds to the pile and he can’t breathe.

“Okay,” Stiles says after a few minutes. Suddenly, both Cora and Laura are gone and Derek can take a deep, shuddering breath. “How are you doing there, bud?”

Derek sits up. His side still aches from Laura’s bony elbow, but he’s alive and his sisters are here.

“I am fine,” he says, letting Laura pull him to his feet. He means from being tackled but the twisted scent of delight coming from the new deputy tells him that his words are being purposefully misinterpreted.

“Go away, Haigh,” Stiles says. “Come back tomorrow and bring Sheriff Lahey with you.”

“The boy is clearly in full control of his faculties. Certainly he can answer a few questions.”

Incredulity smells a lot like anger and frustration, Derek thinks.

“Talk to his doctor,” John breaks in. The calm he exudes is a front. He is just as furious as Stiles. “Deputy, I understand you are just trying to do your job, but you will have to wait. As you can see, Derek has gone through a traumatic ordeal. He needs time to recuperate. I’m sure you and Sheriff Lahey can appreciate that fact.”

Finally the deputy subsides. He shoots a foul grin at them before turning sharply and marching away.

“Who is that man and why does he think Derek had something to do with our family’s murder?” Cora asks.

Stiles sighs, running a hand over his face. “He’s a deputy—part of the department I work for.” The deputy is gone, his shoes no longer able to be heard squeaking over the waxed tiles, his scent mixing into the other smells until it fades into obscurity. “He’s…not a nice man.”

Laura snorts. “That much was obvious from the moment he opened his mouth.”

“He asked really weird questions,” Cora adds.

John nods. “I’m going to file a report with the sheriff first thing tomorrow. Right now, we need to see about getting Derek released and settled into your guys’ temporary home.”

“Oh yeah,” Stiles says. “That reminds me: Erica needs some help setting up. She was going to provide supper.” He glances around. “Where’s Scott? I kind of volunteered him too.”

“I think he went home after he was interviewed, which reminds me—you still need to give your statement, Stiles.”

“Ah crap,” Stiles says, hand on his face again. “Shit. I forgot about that. Damn it!” He sighs heavily. “Dad?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you mind coming with me to Erica’s? I could really use another set of hands.”

John looks apologetic and his scent sours a little with guilt. “Um,” he says, scratching the back of his head. “Actually, I was going to stay here with the Hales until Derek is released.”

Stiles looks to where the deputy disappeared and nods. “That’s actually a really smart plan, you know, just in case.”

“How about you both wait with us,” Laura suggests. “Once Derek is released—and he will be released tonight—we’ll all go to this Erica’s house and then we’ll return to your home for the night.”

“Um,” Stiles says. “You’re not going to stay with me. In fact, that’s why I have to go to Erica’s—to help her get ready for you.”

“Does she know about us and what we are?”

“Dad?”

John shakes his head. “I don’t think so. She wasn’t ever listed in the contacts for the network.”

“How do we explain a severely underweight child to her?” Stiles waves a hand at Derek.

“I’m not in danger of dying,” Derek tells them.”

“Oh yeah?” Stiles counters. “What about earlier? I had to carry you because you ran out of energy.”

Derek stares at him. Okay yeah, he doesn’t remember that. It must have been during his fuzzy period. Embarrassingly, he feels the blood rushing to his face. He wishes he could remember the trip to the hospital now. He thinks it would explain the sudden affection he’s suffering from when Stiles does something nice for him.

Laura steps in front of him and growls, “No.”

Derek sighs. He’s old enough, wolf-wise, to decide on his mate and start wooing them. His wolf doesn’t care that he isn’t emotionally capable, so it’s nice to have an alpha willing to look out for him.

“Back to bed with you, young man,” John says, herding Derek into the room. “We can’t have the hospital know you were traipsing about, now can we? Don’t want to be in trouble.”

Obediently, Derek climbs back onto the bed, and John raises the railings. Cora and Laura curl up together in one of the armless chairs while John sinks into the other with a soft grunt.

Stiles opens the privacy curtain around the other bed and lies down, his feet hanging over the edge.

It’s nice like this. Peaceful.

“Do I have to have another bag?” Derek asks after a few minutes. The clear liquid really helps, but Derek doesn’t like having to spend energy on keeping himself from healing just so that the IV can stay in.

“Not if you don’t want it,” Stiles says without moving. He sounds sleepy. “Do you want it?”

“No. Can I drink it?”

John laughs. “No, sorry, bud. Besides, I don’t think you’d like the taste very much.”

“Oh. Then no, I don’t want it.”

Stiles answers him with a snore. John laughs again, quieter. “Guess that means we _all_ should rest. When the nurse checks on us again, I’ll ask her to get the doctor.”

“Will we be okay?” Derek asks. He knows _her_ —Kate—she always gets what she wants. She wanted a toy and she got Derek. He knows a hospital bed won’t be enough to stop her. Maybe even jail won’t be enough.

John must know what he’s thinking because he says, “She’ll have to go through us first.” His heartbeat stays steady if somewhat muffled from the still-active dampeners.

It’s a comforting thought to Derek, especially because since John and Stiles have gone up against _her—_ Kate—and won.

The release of tension, of holding his muscles coiled, ready to spring away, to either fight or flee, helps him drift off despite the fact that no one moves to turn off the lights.

~ * ~

Stiles did not mean to fall asleep, but the moment his head hit the admittedly thin pillow, he was out. He’d worked a twelve-hour shift and then had all the excitement of today on top of that. Of course he crashed.

His dad shakes him awake nearly an hour later, and Stiles feels impossibly more tired than when he lied down.

The Hales are all awake, huddled by the open door. Laura has Derek’s release papers clutched in the hand braced against her brother while her sister is tucked under the other arm. Derek is again dressed in Stiles’ scavenged clothes, and a jolt of something—guilt?—runs through Stiles’ chest.

He tries to cover his reaction (and whatever scent he’s giving off) by asking, “Erica?” The girls are still wearing the scrubs from Scott, so he knows they haven’t gone yet.

“We’re just waiting on you,” John confirms. “Come on, son.” He tugs Stiles up into a tight hug. “I’m proud of you son. You’ve done well.”

Stiles allows the hug only because he doesn’t know how to tell his dad that he isn’t deserving of his praise this time.

“Let’s go.” Stiles pushes past the Hales, ignoring the way they all stare at him.

John drives since Stiles is still too tired to function, and the Hales pile into the back for the ride.

Erica lives about fifteen minutes from the hospital, in a one-level house with a wide front porch. On one side is a matching set of rocking chairs while the other side is occupied by a hanging bench swing.

In the headlights, Stiles sees Erica standing by the screen door. She looks worried, and Stiles wonders if he should have texted her before they arrived.

John puts Roscoe in park. No one moves for a long moment.

“Who wants to go first?” John asks. The Hales remain absolutely silent. They must be terrified. The people they have come to maybe grudgingly trust (although Stiles doesn’t for a moment think he’s been forgiven for what he did to Derek earlier) are abandoning them. It can’t be easy.

“Okay,” John says when the silence stretches for a few minutes, “I’ll do it.” He opens his door and Laura jumps to action, slipping down from Roscoe’s high step, staring down Erica like she might be her prey. Derek follows, putting a hand on her shoulder. For her part, Erica does not appear to be phased by the apparent hostility of the Hales.

“Erica,” John says, offering her his hand to shake. “You remember me, I trust?”

“Sheriff,” she replies.

John chuckles. “I’m not the sheriff anymore, Erica. You don’t have to call me that. Just John is fine.”

“John,” Erica tries, wincing at it. “Sorry, I think I’ll either stick to Sheriff or Mr. Stilinski, if that’s all right?”

“Certainly, whatever you’re comfortable with.” John reaches behind him and pulls Cora forward. “These are the Hales. This is Cora, that’s Laura, and there’s Derek. Were you given any instructions regarding caring for them?”

Erica shakes her head. “They only said that there was abuse?”

“Who’s they?” Stiles asks.

“The social worker connected to the hospital. She called me and said that she needed my shelter for a while.” Erica turns to Laura, smiling brightly. “I’m Erica. I live here with my boyfriend, Vernon. You’ll see him later.”

Laura sniffs obviously before she sticks out her hand like John. Erica’s smile turns slightly bemused. Derek rolls his eyes at his sister and also shakes Erica’s hand.

“Welcome,” Erica tells him, stepping back and opening the door. “It’s not much, but it’s home.”

She sends Stiles a venomous glare when he passes her. Stiles assumes it’s for not helping her when he said he would. He hopes she still wants to feed him. He’s a bit further along than peckish considering Derek absconded with his supper twice.

“Oh,” Erica says suddenly when she catches sight of Derek in the kitchen light. It’s a broken sound that matches the funny feeling Stiles felt in his chest all those hours ago when he refused to leave Derek by the side of the road. “Stiles?”

Stiles sighs. “The abuse involved starvation. I’m sure the Sheriff’s Department will have a more detailed report tomorrow if you want to stop by and check.”

“I wish I’d been told this,” Erica says. “I was only told that I would be providing housing for three teenagers who had suffered some level of abuse. Nothing about what kind of abuse.”

“Let’s get everything set up first, and then we can talk about things later,” John suggests.

“Can we eat first?” Derek asks in a stage whisper.

Stiles looks at Erica, who shrugs. “I guess so, but please be polite and leave enough for everyone.” Derek scowls at him.

Erica laughs. “You know me,” she says, slapping at Stiles’ shoulder, “I always make enough for everyone.”

Stiles’ warning is definitely unnecessary: when they reach the dining room, they find the table loaded down with enough food for a plethora of starving werewolves.

If Erica was expecting leftovers, she hides it remarkably well, filling and refilling everyone’s plates, especially Derek’s.

The boy eats like he’s expecting every morsel to be stolen from him, cheeks puffed out, swallowing half-chewed bread and meat and washing it down with gravy and water. Stiles watches in amazement as Derek keeps going through plate after plate of food. He’s matching Laura easily.

Then, Stiles notices that every time Derek has to reach for something, he groans a little bit. A quick peek reveals that the boy’s abdomen is swollen, like it was with the worms.

“Stop.”

Derek startles, dropping the spoon for the peas with a loud clatter that makes Laura growl and Cora cover her eyes.

“Stop,” Stiles repeats softer. “You’re full. If you eat any more you could end up hurting yourself. You don’t have to worry about not having enough food, but you should space out your consumption so that it doesn’t hurt you.”

Stiles moves Derek’s plate to his and combines the portions, then he goes to the kitchen for a box of cling-wrap and covers the whole thing. Erica hands him a permanent marker when he returns to the dining room. He writes “Derek” in block letters.

“There. All yours if you get hungry later.”

Laura growls again, and Stiles shudders under the heavy glare she gives him. He’d thought he was helping. Apparently not.

Laura tugs Derek away from the table, and they go back outside. Cora follows a moment later. John excuses himself as well, heading outside too.

“It’s okay,” Erica assures Stiles as he helps her clean away the meager remnants of supper. “They’ve had a rough time. Kindness is bound to be suspicious to them.”

“Kindness?” Stiles gapes dumbly at her. “What kindness? I thought they were mad because I was imposing rules regarding food on them, like their previous abusers.”

Erica nudges the plate with Derek’s name before covering and labeling the girls’ plates. “This is kindness, saving them something, giving it to them.”

“You’re not mad either?”

“No. I know my tendency to see a child in pain and try to fix them with food. Which I know can be detrimental to the child. It’s nice to have that second person to tell me when I’m going overboard.”

She stacks the plates in the refrigerator and then pulls out some Tupperware containers for the rest of the food. There’s barely enough of everything Erica served to fit in a divided plate with a lid. She sticks a bit of painter’s tape on it and writes “Derek.”

“He seems to need a bit more nourishment than his sisters,” she explains. “They all have healthy appetites though. That’s good.”

“I’m sorry that it took us longer than expected at the hospital.”

“Don’t worry about that. I was able to get the bedding out. I just need to assemble the actual beds. Cora and Laura will share a room. Derek has his own room.”

Stiles recalls the way the Hales are always seeking each other out and huddling together. He doubts Derek will stay in his room alone. He also decides that it’s not his problem.

“Let’s get the beds put together,” he says. “It’s late, and I would like some sleep before I have to go back on duty.”

“This way.” Erica points toward the back rooms. “It shouldn’t take too long. They’re mostly together already since the Martins stopped by to help.” Her eyes light up. “So, after Miguel’s surgery, do you think you could bring him by? I’m positive the kids would love to meet him.”

Stiles coughs, choking on nothing. “Well,” he hedges.”

“Derek has already met him,” John supplies from behind them, the kids around him.

Stiles grabs that with both hands. “Yes. Yeah. I, uh, I was dropping off Miguel at the vet when the Hales showed up.”

Erica frowns but doesn’t say anything, and Stiles vows to make up a story about Miguel being placed with another home. Then, he realizes his dad is carrying Derek like he is an oversized child—which he kind of is. Although, at the same time, he’s an undersized child. Jesus, Stiles needs to sleep.

“The beds,” he says. “Let’s go.”

~ * ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, Derek’s wolf side has decided that he needs a protector and that the protector should be Stiles. Neither Derek nor Stiles is interested in each other romantically. That is NOT the point of this story and will not be a future component aside from how it affects Derek and his journey to healing from his trauma.


	15. Thirteen

~ * ~

Derek wakes up to a heavy weight on his back. He panics, kicking and punching, moving around on the floor where he’d made a nest of blankets until he can get away. He can hear his sisters whispering nearby, and it helps the fear subside gradually.

Then, a bright light comes on overhead, blinding him and the fear ramps up again.

“That’s enough of that!” Erica shouts. “Now, what the hell is going on? Why aren’t you in the room you’re supposed to be?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” Cora says, truthfully if the way her heartbeat stays steady is any indicator.

“So you came to your brother’s room?” Erica doesn’t look like she believes Cora. “Why?”

“I told you: I couldn’t sleep.”

Erica gives her a flat look. “Go back to your own rooms. No sneaking.” She leaves the door open behind her, the light still on.

Derek hugs Cora and then shoves her at Laura. “It’s just for tonight,” he says. “What’s one more night on top of three years?”

Laura flashes alpha eyes at him. “It’s more than that,” she says. “She’s keeping us apart like the deputies did. Divide and conquer.”

“Not everyone is a hunter,” Derek tells her. “Sometimes they do things because they are human.”

“I’m not losing you, either of you, because of following a human’s rule. I’ve already lost enough to the humans.”

She closers the door, jamming it so that it won’t open. Then she flips off the light and climbs onto the bed. Cora follows, tugging Derek with her. She promptly kicks him in the gut as she wriggles around, trying to get comfortable.

Derek’s belly is still full from supper, and the kick makes him groan in pain.

“Sorry.” Cora slaps her palm onto his stomach, and while he feels the actual pain leaving, the nausea increases until he pushes himself off the bed to throw up.

Cora is a sympathy vomiter, which only makes Derek dry heave harder. Laura turns on the light again and opens the door.

“Bathroom, now,” she orders. “I _knew_ you ate too much.”

Erica appears in the doorway. “What’s going on now?” She goes pale at the sight of all the vomit. “Great. Just great. Okay, all of you, up. Girls, please go back to your room. Derek, can you stand?”

He can and does. His whole body shakes, convulsing with the urge to vomit again. Erica helps him to the bathroom, shoving an empty pail into his arms while she draws a bath.

“You okay to be alone?” she asks, but Derek is still shivering, spitting saliva into the bucket, so she clicks her tongue. “Strip down to your underwear and I’ll help you in. I think I’ve got some anti-nausea meds that will help you.”

She bustles away, and Laura pokes her head into the room.

“Want me to try healing you?”

Derek shakes his head. He is in pain from the burn of bile and the way his abdomen muscles won’t stop contracting. It will pass and he will heal by himself. Besides, Erica is coming back already.

“Here,” Erica hands him a pill and a glass of water, “this should help.”

He swallows the pill and waits. Whether the medicine helps or not, his nausea disappears and he straightens, offering the pail to Erica.

“Okay, you take that bath now. I’ll dig out some clothes that might fit you.” She clucks her tongue sadly. “I’m sorry about tonight, Derek. I didn’t mean to overfeed you and make you sick.”

Derek has a sudden and overwhelming urge to apologize for eating so much. He knew with the way he hadn’t had a solid meal in so long that he was overdoing it. Since she hadn’t stopped him, he had eaten far more than he otherwise would have just so that she wouldn’t have any to take away.

“Hey, hey. You’re okay.”

Derek stares at the hand she holds out to him.

“You’re crying,” she points out, and he wipes at his cheeks to find that he is indeed crying.

“I don’t know why I am,” he admits. “I don’t feel sad.”

“Sad has nothing on tears,” Erica tells him. “The times I’ve been crying without being sad greatly outweigh the times that I’ve been crying because of being sad. Now, you really need to take that bath, so I’ll get going. Do you want me to lock the door?”

A choice that isn’t really a choice, Derek thinks. “No thank you,” he says.

Erica smiles at him. “I’ll check on you in about five or ten minutes. You can add more hot water if it’s cooled too much.”

Then, Derek is alone in the bathroom. It feels, if he’s being honest, like relief. He can draw in a breath without fear, even if he immediately grimaces at the lingering stench of sick clinging to his skin.

The water is the perfect temperature when he sinks into it, fully clothed. Erica comes back, knocking on the door and waiting for him to respond before she comes in again.

She shakes her head at him, laying the clothes she picked out, an oversized animal control t-shirt and a pair of shorts that look a little too big in the waist, on the sink.

“All your clothes, buddy?”

He nods. He doesn’t want her to see his ribs sticking out, to see the way his belly is still swollen from the food he hasn’t thrown up. “I like it,” he tells her.

She shrugs. “Towel’s on the rack. Don’t stay in too long. I’ll be back to get you in a few more minutes.”

She closes the door behind her, and Derek slides down until the water covers everything but his face.

He’s taking a bath! An actual bath! The last time he’d done that, he was four or five and his father had had to dump him in.

It feels nice, safe. He likes it.

But, he is tired, and Erica will be back soon, so he climbs out and strips off the wet clothing. He dries quickly and dresses quicker.

As promised, Erica comes back just as he opens the drain in the tub. She pats his shoulder. “Go to bed, please. And stay in your own room. Good night, Derek.”

“Good night,” he replies. He doesn’t tell her that he can’t sleep in his room even though someone cleaned up the vomit. The smell is strong enough he can smell it in the hall. He pretends to go into his room, waves at Erica, and shuts the door. He waits the thirty seconds it takes for her to go to her own room, tuck herself in, and turn off her reading lamp before he scuttles across the hall and slips into his sisters’ room. Laura and Cora made a blanket nest like his, and he crawls into it, curling as tightly as he can under his alpha’s watchful gaze. Cora wraps her arms around him, hugging tightly as she drifts off.

Derek can feel his wolf settling, calming as Laura strokes a hand through his hair. It makes it easier to fall asleep too.

~ * ~

Stiles wakes up when he almost falls over where he’s leaning against the wall.

His dad shoots him a fond smile. “Maybe it’s time you went off to bed, eh?”

“But the mess,” Stiles protests. “What about—” he yawns widely, interrupting himself for a few good seconds. “Yeah, okay,” he says to his dad’s smug look. “I’m going.”

But, even after brushing his teeth in his freshly cleaned bathroom and changing into his most comfortable pajama pants, sleep doesn’t come easy.

He spends about thirty minutes staring at the ceiling and watching the shadow of his dad sweeping the living room.

Eventually he can deny it no longer and gets up again. He takes his pillow and blanket with him and curls up on the couch.

John eyes him and then hauls out the old vacuum cleaner Stiles got as a gift from a distant aunt when he graduated high school.

Upon receiving the already-ancient _Dyson_ , Stiles had joked that his aunt thought he was getting married. At his college graduation, he’d found out that’s exactly what she thought when she sent an updated version that his dad had claimed since the first one still worked great.

The noise of the vacuum is almost enough to help Stiles drift off to sleep, but just when his breathing is slowed and his limbs are going heavy, his dad stops.

John notices his glare and laughs. “Sorry but you’re the one who rented a shoebox.”

Stiles grins tiredly. “Are you going home now?”

“Well, unless you have something else you need cleaned.”

“How about those dishes? Been meaning to get them out of the way for about a week now.” At his dad’s horrified stare, Stiles laughs. “No, but seriously, can we just talk? It’s been forever since we’ve had time just for us.”

“Stiles, it’s past midnight. Your shift starts at 5:00. Are you sure you want me to stay?”

“Please?”

John sighs and settles on the end of the couch, Stiles waits until he gets comfortable and then plops his legs in his lap.

“What do you want to talk about?”

Stiles thinks for a moment. “How about what you’ve been up to since retirement?”

“Forced retirement, you mean.” John shrugs, running his hand up and down Stiles’ leg. He used to do that when Stiles was young enough for naps. It used to help him drop right off. “I’m remodeling.”

“Oh yeah? How’s that going?”

John’s voice is much nicer to listen to than the vacuum, and as much as Stiles finds “knocking out the wall between the dining and living rooms and portioning it off into a series of mini-rooms” interesting, the drone lulls him.

He slips along like that, listening to the changes happening to his childhood home, feeling his dad’s hand, big and warm, on his leg. He’s glad then that his dad offered to help him clean his apartment so that he could stay here rather than trying to navigate a construction zone.

And then it sounds like his dad says, “Thinking of adopting them,” and Stiles jerks fully awake.

“What did you say?” he demands.

John smiles. “You know I’m redoing the house.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I’ve also been taking classes. I’m certified to foster children. I’ve been thinking that I should adopt the Hale kids. You know, give them a home so that they won’t be separated and left to fend for themselves.”

“Adopt?” Stiles stares at his dad, incredulous. “Are you positive?”

“Son, I knew their family. I was their emissary. It feels right, like this is what I was waiting for.”

“Adopting these kids, these werewolves. You really think it’s a good idea to do that right now?”

John looks hurt. “Do you think I should let these kids be split up by DCS?”

“What about the scandal?” Stiles asks. “‘Former sheriff adopts kids from case that ruined his career.’ Dad, Sheriff Lahey will come after you with everything he’s got. He’ll destroy you.”

John scoffs. “I’m not scared of what that man thinks he can do.”

“But I am! Dad, don’t you understand adopting the Hales only solves the Hales’ problems? It doesn’t help anyone else.”

“And you know what, Stiles? Those kids need more help than anyone else.” Dad stands up and stomps to the door. He pauses, and without turning around he says, “Your mom and I were going to do the fostering thing when you left home.”

The door closing softly is louder to Stiles than if his dad had slammed it.

They don’t invoke Mom often, so when they do, it makes everything significant. Stiles used Mom to move to Atlanta and back, and Dad…this is the first time that Stiles can remember his father speaking about something Mom and he wanted to do.

It makes Stiles feel even more like an asshole.

Well, he’s definitely not getting to sleep now. He might as well start drafting his statement for when Sheriff Lahey comes for him. He only hopes he still has a job after this.

And that he can find the words to apologize to his dad.

~ * ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also posted at [my Tumblr](http://1989dreamer.tumblr.com/post/174105576705/chapter-13-of-looking-for-a-place-to-call-home).
> 
> I did a small search for the department in California that handles Child Services but could not find a satisfactory answer. When I have more time and less tiredness, I'll try again.
> 
> Also, there may still be errors. Un-Beta-ed as always and just generally tired. I will look it over again when I have more time. Thanks.


	16. Fourteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Laura talks about what she (and Cora to an extent) went through at the hands of the hunters.

~ * ~

Derek waits for Erica to hand him a pre-filled bowl of cereal before he even attempts to eat. Cora and Laura both get seconds over the disapproving glare of Erica’s husband, Boyd the animal catcher. Isaac, the other animal catch, is squeezed between Derek and Cora and he gets seconds too. Even though he’s still hungry, when he finishes, Derek rinses his bowl out and sets it in the pile of dirty dishes.

“Oh, school!” Erica suddenly exclaims. “You poor darlings!”

“School?” Laura says disdainfully. “We don’t need school.”

“Do you want a job?” Boy asks sternly. Laura shrugs. “You won’t get one without an education.”

“Are you seriously going to send me back to my sophomore year? Make Derek go back to eighth grade? Send Cora to fifth grade?”

“You should at least test out of the grades you missed. If you can pass those classes, we’ll get you a G.E.D. which is almost as good as a diploma.”

“Why can’t I just do the J.E.D. thing now?”

“G.E.D.,” Erica corrects. “And you can’t do it yet because we don’t know how much you know.”

“I know how to survive when a group of hunters burn my house down around my family and steal us away to be breeding machines,” Laura says smugly.

Erica goes pale. “What?” she says faintly.

Laura’s smile fades. “I was raped almost daily when we were taken. I protected Cora as much as I could.”

Her scent is equal parts shame and disgust. “I had a baby, a girl. They took her. She’d be two now.”

“I,” Erica stutters, “I. I’ll kill those motherfuckers myself.” She pulls Laura into a hug, and surprisingly, Laura lets her. “We’ll find your child. We will help you.”

Derek trusts Erica’s promise, maybe even more than he trusts Stiles’. She is pure sincerity. Even Boyd nods in agreement, adding, “We’ll do everything we can for you.”

“We’ll talk with Sheriff Stilinski first to see what actions we need to take and then we’ll take them.”

Boyd checks his watch and curses under his breath. “Isaac and I need to get on the road. We’ll try to swing by Stilinski’s old house, see what he can tell us today.”

Erica kisses him, runs a thumb under the bruise on Isaac’s eye, and bustles away.

Boyd pats at Laura’s arm. “You’re a brave woman, Laura Hale.” He points to Cora and Derek. “You’re brave too. Keep fighting. You’ve got people in your corner now.” He looks to Isaac and then back to Laura. “Do not let Sheriff Lahey speak with you. At all. If you must meet with any of the deputies, ask for Jordan Parrish.”

Erica comes back and sets a pack of ballpoint pens and a notebook in front of Laura. “Write down as much as you can remember. We’ll use it to find these ‘hunters.’”

Boyd and Isaac head out while Erica washes the dishes quickly.

Laura tears out a sheet of paper for Cora and then starts writing.

“What do I do?” Derek asks. He thinks no one wants to hear about what happened to him. After all, the sheriff’s department thinks he helped set the fire. What if Erica and Boyd think that too? Will they only help Laura and Cora? His stomach lurches uncomfortably, and he rubs at it.

“You can go watch TV,” Erica tells him. Clear dismissal.

Derek takes a pack of toaster pastries from the cupboard when she isn’t looking and goes back to the room he was supposed to spend the night in. the smell of vomit has faded somewhat, and he props open the window to help.

He eats one package of pastries while he drags the heavy quilt off the bed and to a corner of the room. He curls into as tight of a ball as he can, trying to convince himself that the pain in his stomach isn’t really hunger, that’s it’s just in his head.

~ * ~

Stiles finishes his statement and has it on Lahey’s desk before Haigh finds him.

Haigh throws a punch at Stiles’ face, and Stiles catches his fist.

“What the fuck, Haigh?” he says.

“You cock-sucking sonofabitch.” Haigh swings his other fist, and Stiles catches that too.

Krav Maga, mofo, he thinks right before he head butts Haigh, breaking his nose and kicking his legs out from under him with a sweep of his leg. By the time Haigh clambers to his feet, the other deputies have him surrounded.

“Why’d you attack Stilinski?” Parrish demands. Haigh says nothing, spitting blood on the floor at Stiles’ feet. “If you won’t reveal your motivation, then we have no choice but to arrest you for assault on an officer.”

Haigh still says nothing. Parrish drags him off and sticks him in a cell.

The desk clerk, a kid by the name of Kincaid grabs stiles’ arm. “I can’t reach the Sheriff.”

Stiles looks around the station, noting that indeed, Sheriff Lahey is nowhere in sight. He isn’t even mingled in with the deputies. Stiles should have noticed when it was Parrish who rescued Haigh.

Stiles checks the schedule to be certain, and yep, Sheriff Lahey is supposed to be here by now.

“Have you tried his house or his cell?”

“Of course. I’ve also called his son, but he doesn’t know where he is.”

Stiles taps his lips, thinking, Lahey is in decent health. He lives with his son on the upscale side of town. If he’s not answering his phone and Isaac doesn’t know what happened to him, then something is really wrong.

“Get Parrish to help you,” Stiles tells Kincaid. “Keep it quiet for now and keep me updated.”

“Will do.” Kincaid scurries away.

Stiles grabs his keys and checks out his service weapon. Then, he heads out to Sheriff Lahey’s house.

He doesn’t know what to expect but it certainly isn’t Allison sitting on the front steps. She’s wearing a thin jacket over a burgundy dress with a matching headband. She looks freshly changed, her makeup smudged. Her shoes, though, are out of place, sneakers with bloodstained soles.

Stiles sighs, popping the strap on his holster. He stops in front of her, waiting. When she doesn’t say anything or even look at him, he tapped her shoulder.

“What am I going to find, Allison?” he asks.

She shakes her head.

“Allison, did you have anything to do with this?”

“You don’t even know what _this_ is,” she counters, still refusing to make eye contact.

“What am I going to find? Please don’t let me walk in there blind.”

Allison finally raises her eyes. “Isaac’s dad is dead, his body torn apart like a pack of dogs were unleashed on him.”

“Why are you here?”

“You mean what is a child psychologist doing at a crime scene?” Allison snorts and it sounds panicked to Stiles. “Well, I got a call from Vernon Boyd and—”

“Vernon Boyd? Isaac’s partner?” Stiles interrupts. Allison glares at him. “Sorry, go on. You got a call from Boyd. What did he want?”

“He said he thought Isaac’s dad was abusing him and that he’d kept Isaac with him all night. He wanted me to evaluate Isaac, to see if I could determine the extent of the abuse.”

“So you came here?”

“Isaac was supposed to pick up some clothes for his work, but…”

Stiles gets that she’s traumatized. The violence yesterday did no one any favors. He waves his hand at her, encouraging her to continue.

“But he never showed up. I’ve dealt with abusive people before, so I thought I could talk to Sheriff Lahey to see just how secure his mask was. Only, when I knocked, no one answered.”

“How’d you end up inside?” Stiles points at her shoes.

Allison follows his finger, and winces at her feet, easing the shoes off without using her hands. “I head a low groan and found an open window.”

“Allison,” Stiles says, and her head snaps up, eyes focusing on him. “If you tell me the Sheriff was still alive when you found him, I won’t be able to help you.”

“I didn’t do it,” she says, meeting his gaze head on. “I don’t know what happened to the man in there, but I know he had a few moments before he died that I tried to save him.” Allison covers her face. “There was so much blood…I put my clothes in a bag in the trunk of my car.”

Stiles sighs. He believes Allison. He’s known her for sixteen years. Not once has she been able to maintain eye contact when she lies. It made their short-lived poker days amusing, but it also means his gut is conflicted. Should he trust almost two decades of experience and leave her off the suspect list, or should he follow his instincts and have her taken in as a person of interest?

He decides to split the middle and ask her to come to the station to answer some more questions as a witness for now.

She agrees easily, handing over her shoes.

So the Sheriff is dead. Stiles tugs at his hair. The man who beat out his dad in the election is dead. Stiles’ _boss_ is dead…and Allison is somehow involved. He sighs, yanks his hair one last time, and goes back to his car to radio it in. He tells dispatch to hold off on letting Haigh know if he’s out of the cell yet.

Then, he escorts Allison to her car where she gives him the rest of her clothes, tied up neatly in a dry cleaning bag. She pulls on a pair of slippers and climbs into the driver’s seat of her car. He stops her before she can shut her door.

“Is there anything else you can tell me about this case?” he asks her.

“I’ve already said too much,” she replies. “I’ll try to give you all the information I can.”

“If you’re worried about doctor-patient confidentiality, I would like to remind you that you never actually met with Isaac Lahey in any capacity. In fact, it appears that he didn’t contact you at all. It was Boyd. But why is Boyd so eager to expose the Sheriff? Wouldn’t he have done it sooner than now if he knew about the abuse before?”

Stiles frowns, head spinning. What if it’s just a coincidence that Boyd wanted Allison to confirm his suspicions of abuse? What if the real culprit already knew about the abuser and snapped?

What if Isaac killed his own father?

Stiles groans, pulling out his hand held radio. “Dispatch, this is Unit 5. Do you copy?”

“Copy, Unit 5. This is Dispatch. Go ahead.”

“Dispatch, we need eyes on Isaac Lahey. Copy?”

“Roger that, Unit 5. All units, BOLO for Isaac Lahey. Brown hair, blue eyes, six-foot-two-inches. One hundred fifty-five pounds. All units, all units.”

Stiles hopes he’s doing the right thing.

~ * ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At [my Tumblr](http://1989dreamer.tumblr.com/post/176684905160/chapter-14-of-looking-for-a-place-to-call-home) too.


	17. Fifteen

~ * ~

Derek almost makes it to lunch, which he can smell Erica cooking from his room, before he caves and eats the second pastry. It does nothing to sooth the hunger burning his stomach. If anything, it makes it worse.

It feels so bad he wants to cry. Maybe Erica can help? He can smell the medicine she uses on her. She might know what to do for a tummy ache.

Erica freezes when he stumbles into kitchen.

“Are you okay?” she asks, and Derek shakes his head.

In the short walk, his stomach has started cramping. He has both hands pressed against it, trying to draw the pain out of himself.

It isn’t working, and in his pain-addled state, Derek can’t figure out why. It makes him growl in frustration.

Erica wipes her hands on a dish towel and presses Derek into a seat at the little round table. From somewhere, she produces a thermometer. Derek stares at it in horror. It was bad enough when Scott took his temperature when he was in his delta shift. But, he’s human now. Surely Erica doesn’t expect to stick that…?

“Open your mouth, please,” she directs.

He obeys out of sheer relief. She sticks the probe under his tongue and instructs him to hold it for a few minutes.

Derek would grumble but he’s not sure how much she knows. Sometimes she looks at them like she’s aware and then she does this. Werewolves expend a lot of heat due to their heightened abilities. If Erica thinks she’s going to get an accurate reading, then he’ll know she isn’t in the know.

Erica takes the thermometer when it beeps. She makes a tsking sound and plops a bowl of stew in front of Derek.

“Eat,” she says, moving away to wash the thermometer and stir her pots.

The stew is good, and Derek picks up the bowl to drink it. Erica stops him.

“Slowly. You’ll get sick if you don’t.”

Derek uses the spoon she hands him, taking as large of a bite as he can manage. Erica pats his head.

“After lunch, if you feel up to it, we’ll go back to the hospital for a checkup.”

Derek doesn’t answer, scraping the bottom of the bowl. His stomach feels better with the food in it. He doesn’t think he needs to go to the hospital again.

“Also, if you feel like you can handle it, we have to go to the Sheriff’s Station to give your statement.” Erica refills Derek’s bowl halfway and he carefully spoons the hot stew into his mouth to delay responding.

Erica calls Laura and Cora in to eat, and between the two of them, they polish off the rest of the pot.

“Lots of small meals,” Erica says, sticking the thermometer back into Derek’s mouth. She tits at whatever it reads. “We’ll get the hospital out of the way before we go to the Sheriff’s Station.”

“You said if I felt up to it,” Derek points out, and Erica laughs.

“If you’re trying to figure out a way out, then you definitely feel up to going to the hospital.”

Derek scowls at his empty bowl. His stomach doesn’t hurt anymore, so why does he have to go back? The only thing the hospital could do for him was give him another bag of fluid. If he was healed enough, though, the bag wouldn’t do anything for him.

“Can we go to the Sheriff’s Station first?” he asks. “If I feel bad again, we can go to the hospital then.”

“Smart,” Erica says. “Okay, deal. We’ll go to the hospital only if you need it and not until after the Sheriff’s Station. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to finish the dishes. Why don’t you go make your beds?”

“Can I help with the dishes?” Derek asks. Erica is being very nice to them. Her hospitality must be wearing thin. Anything they can do to help her, they should.

“That’s so nice of you to offer, but I’ve got this round. You go make your bed and then we’ll head out.”

Derek pauses in the doorway. Erica seems happy enough scrubbing their bowls while the stew pot soaks, but Derek has had experience with people who can mask their emotions or mimic others’ to confuse werewolf senses.

He decides to check on her after he makes the bed like she told him to. Maybe she’s like Stiles and her betrayal will come later. He’ll be ready for it this time.

For now, he returns to the room he slept in last night. He doesn’t know who to make a bed—Mom and Dad weren’t picky and the hunters never gave him a bed.

In the end, he just tugs the blanket until there are as few wrinkles as he can manage, sets the pillows against the headboard, and calls it good.

Back in the kitchen, Erica has everything done. She smiles at Derek, ruffling his hair with an affectionate yank.

“Ready?” she asks. “Do you want a snack before we leave?”

Derek shrugs. A snack would be nice. But what would Erica prefer?

“Cheese sticks and an apple okay?” She hands him two packages of cheese while she cuts an apple. Cora and Laura come running into the kitchen, and Erica throws them each a whole carton of milk, a box of crackers, the rest of the cheese sticks and apples, and some containers of yogurt.

Derek finishes his apples and cheese in the time it takes them to eat the entire stack of food. Erica smiles, scent fond as she watches them.

“Still hungry?” she asks Derek, and he nods. She gives him a package of graham crackers. “Okay, let’s go. Sheriff’s Station. Socks and shoes, please.”

Derek watches in amazement as Erica produces a pack of thick socks. There are enough pairs for them to each have two. Brand new never worn socks.

The shoes Erica gives them aren’t new, but Derek hasn’t worn shoes in three years, so he isn’t going to complain. Besides, Erica gives him another package of crackers to eat while she tries to convince his sisters that it’s necessary to wear shoes out in public.

Derek eats his crackers too fast and ends up hiccupping so hard that he throws up a little.

Erica takes the graham crackers away, replacing them with something she calls saltines. He likes them almost better than the graham crackers, and he eats them carefully to keep from being sick again.

Finally, after a series of exasperated glares and grunts from Erica, Laura agrees and gets Cora to put her shoes on. Derek offers them each a cracker. Then it’s out to Erica’s car with Laura in the front seat and Derek and Cora in the back.

The ride to the Sheriff’s Station is quick and painless. And Derek gets another pack of saltines as a reward for not throwing up again.

Laura and Cora fight over the last pack of graham crackers while Erica goes to the front desk and asks to see the Sheriff. The deputy blanches.

“You’ll have to wait,” he says nervously. “The Sheriff is occupied at the moment.”

“He’s lying,” Derek whispers to Erica.

“Funny, Kincaid. Is he in his office? Perhaps having a little afternoon imbibing session?”

“The Sheriff would never drink on the job,” the deputy says outraged. Derek points that out as a lie too and Kincaid glares at him.

“The Sheriff is indisposed. We’ll call you when we can take your statement.”

Erica rolls her eyes and ushers them back to the car. “Since you did throw up, I think we should stop by the hospital. Just in case.”

Derek tries not to worry about it, but he knows he’s probably going to be hooked up to one of those liquid bags again.

“I don’t want to,” he tells Erica when they’re at Beacon Memorial Hospital’s entrance. “Please don’t make me.”

Laura puts her hand on Derek’s shoulder, and his wolf subsides, the panic dissipating somewhat.

“I’m right here. I’ll stay with you through it all. You won’t be alone.”

Bravely, Derek steps up to the doors. With his alpha on one side, his pack mate on the other, and Erica leading the way, he enters the hospital for his check up.

~ * ~

Stiles pulls into the station. He’s just spent the whole morning looking for the animal control van. He’d called their dispatcher and was told they were responding to a call out for a mountain lion sighting.

The deputies who’d arrived at Sheriff Lahey’s house had confirmed that the Sheriff had been torn apart by some kind of animal, and that Allison was telling the truth about trying to save his life.

Stiles hits his steering wheel in frustration. He doesn’t believe for a second that there’s a mountain lion. Everywhere he checks, he can’t find Boyd or Isaac. And because they’re on the outskirts of town, there’s no one around to ask.

Beyond frustrated, Stiles stomps up to the front desk. Kincaid winces when he sees him.

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes, “Parrish wasn’t available and I still haven’t been able to get the Hales’ statements.”

Fucking shit, Stiles thinks. “Well, you know where they’re going to be. Why don’t you go talk to them, get their statements. I need to talk to Haigh.”

Kincaid stops Stiles before he walks off. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think anyone’s too broken up about the situation of the Sheriff.”

“No,” Stiles agrees, “but we still have to investigate.” He shrugs off Kincaid and heads to the holding cells. Haigh whistles lowly when Stiles walks up to his cell.

“Heard about the Sheriff.” Haigh shakes his head. “Shame.”

“What do you know about his death?”

“Are you sure you should be the one talking to me about this?”

Stiles ignores Haigh’s grin. “Did you know about him abusing his son?”

“Rumors, slander.”

Stiles shakes his head. “I don’t think so. The source is credible. I trust them. So, I ask again: was Michael Lahey abusive toward his son Isaac?”

“If he was, why would I know anything about it?”

“Because you’re so far up Lahey’s ass that he couldn’t shit you out even if he wanted to.”

Haigh laughs. “I’m flattered, but that doesn’t mean I knew anything about his home life. If he was abusing his kid, why didn’t anyone care before now?”

Stiles thinks of Boyd, who called Allison to evaluate his work buddy, who made Isaac stay at his place to give him at least one night of reprieve, who is out on a “call” with his partner during the discovery of the Sheriff’s body.

“Someone did,” Stiles says. Much as he hates to admit it, Boyd and Isaac are the main suspects. Jesus fuck.

Stiles goes to his desk, calling animal control dispatch again.

“Where are they now?” he demands as soon as Callie answers.

She sighs. “They’re at lunch, Stilinski.”

“Where?”

“Where else? _The Burger Joint_.”

“Don’t let them know I’m coming,” he warns her. “In fact, stall them. There’s something vital I gotta talk to them about.”

“Oh really? What?”

“Miguel,” Stiles lies. That oughta be good enough. Callie must agree because she says she’ll pass on the message and hangs up.

Kincaid is gone and a new deputy, Virginia Ramirez, is in his place.

“Tell Parrish to call me when he gets a chance,” Stiles tells her. “I’m heading to lunch now.”

“Yes sir.” Ramirez all but salutes. Stiles refrains from rolling his eyes. She’s a rookie, newer than even Kincaid. She’s entitled to a little ass-kissing—as long as she doesn’t take it as far as Haigh.

Stiles still has no idea why Haigh tried to punch him this morning.

He can figure it out later. Right now, he needs to focus on the murder of Sheriff Lahey.

~ * ~


End file.
